Jelly

At first the pairings made perfect sense. The mission was to gather intel on a potential separatist spy from afar. So you had split into three teams of two.

With Hunter’s tracking abilities and Wreckers need for action, they were best suited for following your target from the ground - listening into conversations, watching what was bought and sold.

Tech and Echo were to remain on the marauder, which was parked just outside of the small beach town, tasked with monitoring comm channels and keeping in contact with command. If a quick getaway was needed then you also wanted Tech in the pilots seat.

And with Crosshair’s eyesight and sniper skills, and your patience and attention to detail, it made sense that the two of you were paired together to watch from above, monitoring your targets larger movements around the town.

Two weeks into sharing a single room with Crosshair was starting to make you wish you two didn’t make such a good pairing. The man was insufferable. He didn’t pick up after himself, leaving clothes and wrappers littered around the room. He was always grumbling under his breath about one thing or another. And his stupid toothpicks. It made you furious every time he used the stupid things to point at you as he talked.

But the real reason you were struggling with this mission was because despite all the ways he got on your nerves, Crosshair held all your affections. You cared for him more deeply than you should. And being caged in a single room with him for the past two weeks was wearing you thin. With each minute that passed your feelings were getting harder and harder to control.

Each time he silently handed you a ration bar, reminding you to eat, each time he quietly joked with you as you watched the marketplace below you while sharing snacks he had stolen from the vending machine in the hallway, each time you fell asleep by the window and woke up tucked in bed, each time he showed the quiet way he cares has your heart racing and a warm feeling spreading within your chest. He seemed cold and cruel on the surface, but if you knew where to look, Crosshair was a big softie and it had you melting for him.

With each day that passed, you were getting closer and closer to doing something stupid, something that will certainly leave your heart shattered.

Something like grabbing his stupidly handsome face and kissing him. Which is exactly what you did.

•~•~•

It was approaching two weeks of your stakeout. Two weeks of sharing the small, crappy room with Crosshair.

The marketplace below you was quiet, the afternoon rush having come and gone. The vendors were in their final few hours of their shifts before they would be shutting up for the night. Your forehead is pressed to the glass. You know that the target isn’t here. Hunter and Wrecker had commed you earlier, updating you that they had followed the target back to the room she was renting and it appeared that she wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. It was completely pointless for you to be staring out of the window but you and Crosshair were instructed to keep round the clock surveillance in case Hunter and Wrecker miss anything. You hum a mindless tune to keep your mind occupied as you watch an elderly woman purchase her groceries.

“Stop humming” Crosshair huffs.

“No.” Your response is dry and you continue humming just a little bit louder than before.

“Stop. Focus on the task.”

“I am focusing. What do you think I’m doing?” You snap. He always had something to complain about.

“I think you’re watching that woman buy her dinner instead of the hotel across the square.”

You feel your face flush slightly at being caught. Curse his stupid enhanced eyesight.

“What woman?” You grumble, but it’s halfhearted and not very convincing. He sighs loudly and shuffles off the bed he was resting on. He drags the second chair over and positions it next to you. You unstick your forehead from the window to look at him, ignoring the fact that there’s probably a red mark on your head, to give him a questioning look.

“If you’re bored you won’t focus properly,” is all he says in explanation. You nod along.

“So what do you propose?” You ask. He doesn’t respond and your annoyance begins to creep in again. You huff and scan the small crowd of shoppers and vendors below you.

“See that blue twi-lek?” You ask, pointing the man out. Crosshair leans forward slightly, studying the man closely.

“What about him?”

“And see that vendor there? The guy with the glasses and pink hair?”

“Yes.”

“Well the twi-lek man definitely has feelings for the vendor. He’s there just about once a day and he always selects an object at random, not studying the produce like other shoppers. He also stays to talk with the vendor longer than anyone else,” you explain.

“Stop loosing focus” Crosshair snaps.

“I’m not! I’m taking in the square as a whole and therefore I notice the other people in it as well” you defend. Crosshair is silent for a moment.

“How do you know?” He asks. You shrug.

“I don’t. Obviously. I’m taking what I’m seeing and making something up to go with it. You have a go.”

Crosshair doesn’t say anything, but that doesn’t surprise you.

“I think the vendor is interested in the twi-lek as well. But he’s got a kid and he’s worried that it’ll scare the twi-lek away. It won’t” you continue your story. You go quiet for a moment, studying the crowd.

“That little girl keeps stealing from that particular fruit vendor” you say, pointing the two out. Crosshair doesn’t respond but he follows your gaze to see who you’re talking about and you smile to yourself. “She only does it because the vendors little sister makes fun of her at school.”

“That man by the herbal store,” Crosshair points out. You seek out the man he’s talking about and find a neatly dressed man’s pacing and muttering. You hum your acknowledgment and you feel Crosshairs gaze flicker to you for a moment.

“He’s going to propose tonight.”

You turn to look at him and give him a surprised look.

“I didn’t pick you for a romantic Cross,” you tease.

“I’m not,” he scoffs. “I saw him buy the ring when we first arrived.”

“Well who’s he proposing too?” You ask.

“How should I know” he huffs in annoyance.

“Make something up” you prompt. He’s quiet for a long moment. You’re just about to come up with a new story yourself when he finally speaks up.

“The girl who grew up next door from him. Their parents are friends so they’ve known each other since they were little, but he didn’t really notice her until she helped him get over his first heartbreak when they were fifteen.”

You turn to look at him again, studying his face, but he keeps it in his neutral scowl. You know that he can feel your gaze on him, but he ignores you. The story is sweet and romantic and a compete surprise coming from Crosshair. You can feel your heart beat pick up slightly. Crosshair could be romantic when he wanted and it only deepens your already overflowing feelings for him. He finally spares you a glance and you realise you’ve been staring at him. You clear your throat.

“Which holo-novel did you get that one from?” You gently knock his shoulder with yours in your attempt at teasing him, but it feels awkward and you internally cringe.

“Fine then I won’t play your little game.”

You pout at him playfully but it softens into a smile.

“You just surprised me is all. Didn’t think you had it in you Cross.” You hesitate before you continue, not wanting to risk overstepping. “I like you like this.”

He turns away from the window and looks at you. You’re already watching him. The two of you spend a moment just studying each other. Crosshair breaks it first, leaning forward to gently run his thumb over the still lingering mark on your forehead from leaning on the window earlier. He smooths his thumb across your skin, as if he’s trying to wipe away the faint redness. It’s soothing and soft and oh so tender.

His face is so close to yours, your breaths mingling together. He makes eye contact with you, his hand still on your face, and there’s a gorgeous warmth in his eyes and you just can’t control your emotions anymore.

You bring your hands up to his face and lean in, closing the gap between the two of you. The kiss you give him is sweet and tender, mirroring his previous actions. His hand on your face moves to the back of your head as he kisses you back. A glorious warmth fills your chest.

It’s quickly erased a moment later, however. Crosshair pulls back sharply, leaning as far back in his chair, as if to get away from you.

That sweet warmth turns into burning embarrassment. You’ve ruined everything now.

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked. I’ve overstepped and-“

“Don’t.”

You stop talking and look at him, waiting to see what else he has to say. But he doesn’t say anything. Typical.

“Cross-“

“Just don’t do it again.”

Kriff.

You can feel your heart shatter. You’ve read it all wrong. He doesn’t feel the same.

“I’m sorry. I thought you liked me. I misread the situation and I should have asked. I’m sorry Crosshair.” You’re rambling, but you don’t know what else to do. You feel bad. You’ve put him in a situation he probably never thought he’d be in.

“I do like you.” He says it simply, like it’s glaringly obvious. Like he didn’t just tell you to never kiss him again.

“What?” Your brain is taking too long to catch up. “Then why…” you trail off.

“It’s you that doesn’t like me” he states plainly. You’re still confused, but it melts into annoyance and a bit of anger.

“Crosshair- what?” You question. “Of course I like you! I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t like you.” He shakes his head.

“Stop it. You don’t.” He tells you. Your anger really starts to simmer. Who was he to tell you how you felt.

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap at him. “Don’t tell me that I don’t like you as if I didn’t just risk our entire relationship to kiss you. Like I haven’t pined after you for months. Like you didn’t catch my attention as soon as I joined this team.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You’re both furious and flabbergasted. Your mouth is opening and closing like a fish as you struggle to find the words to express your fury. Crosshair speaks before you can find them.

“You don’t actually like me. I’m just your chance to prove you were a little rebellious. That you slept with someone other than the vanilla partner you’ll end up with. You’ll tell the story of the daring few months you spent with me at your girls night to gain a few gasps. Ultimately, I’m just a quick fling to get it out of your system before you settle down for a quiet, boring life.”

He says it all plainly, his voice dry and lacking any real emotion. He says it as if he’s describing the weather.

You finally find your voice again and you just snap.

“You’ve gone too far this time, alright! This isn’t just a fling to - to ‘get it out my system’. This isn’t some attention seeking rebellious act or a story to laugh about with some boring date or partner in the future. What I feel for you is real. Do you want to know how I know this?”

“Pray tell.”

“Because I hate it! I hate the way you make me feel! I hate your stupid voice and your stupid comments. I hate your toothpicks and I hate the way you glare at me. I hate that you’re so charming without even trying and I hate the quiet ways you care for me. I hate you!”

You pant as you try to catch your breath. You stare at him but he gives no indication that he’s going to say anything. You hate how he speaks when you don’t want him to and is silent when you desperately need him to speak. You huff in annoyance, but all the fight has left you.

“I hate you so much and yet… here I am, yearning for you.”

He moves so quickly, you almost don’t register it until he’s in front of you. He grabs your face in both hands, and he kisses you. Fiercely. It’s deep and passionate and desperate. It takes you a moment to respond, but when you do you kiss him back just as hard.

He starts walking you backwards, his lips never leaving yours, until you feel your back press against a wall. It’s no longer just his lips and hands on you as he presses his body onto yours. You can feel all of him - his hard chest, his hips, his strong thighs - and yet it’s not enough. You need more.

He breaks the kiss, but he doesn’t move away from you. He studies your face for a moment before he speaks.

“I’m yours whenever you need me,” he murmurs in your ear, his lips brushing your earlobe before he begins tracing a path of soft kisses down your neck. Your breath stutters as you try to speak.

“I need you now Crosshair. I always need you.” You let out a small moan as his teeth run over your pulse point. He focuses on this spot, sucking and nipping until he’s satisfied with the mark he’s left behind.

“Tell me what you want, doll” he says, pulling away from your neck to look at you. You whine and turn your face away from him. He makes a disappointed sound as he gently grabs your chin to turn your face back towards him. “None of that now. Prove you can handle me. Look at me as you tell me what you want.”

He’s wearing that insufferable smirk. The one that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. It’s the stupid smirk that makes you push him off you and backwards until the back of his knees is hitting the bed. You push him down before straddling his lap. He doesn’t believe you can take him, but you are more than happy to prove him wrong.

“First, I want this off” you say as you begin mouthing at his neck, your fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, lightly tugging the material upwards. He leans back slightly to allow you to slide his shirt further up his body and you take your time as you graze your fingers over his newly exposed skin. You drop the shirt carelessly on the ground, unable to tear your eyes or hands away from his gorgeous golden skin for very long. You trace your fingers over his chest and abdomen.

“See something you like?” His voice has a teasing lilt to it. You lift your gaze back up to his dark eyes. You can’t help your cheeky smile.

“It’ll do.” You add a small shrug to add effect.

“Well in that case-“ he moves you off him and gets up, walking away from you, giving you a wondrous view of his back.

“Crosshair don’t you dare!” You whine.

“That’s what I thought” he smirks. He stands in front of you and he hooks his fingers under your shirt. He stills though, silently asking for your permission. Something in your chest melts a little before you nod. You expect him to rip the fabric from you, instead he takes his time, brown eyes taking in every inch of your skin that’s exposed to him. Your heart races in your chest as he takes you in.

Once the offending garment is finally on the floor somewhere you reach up and grab his face, pulling him down to you in a searing kiss. Your emotions bubble under your skin and you need him. He runs his hands over your waist as you kiss, taking in the feel of you under him. Wanting more, you unclasp your bra, tugging it off without breaking the kiss. Crosshair groans into the kiss and you drink up the sound, wanting to hear it over and over again.

Crosshair pulls away, his eyes fixating on your chest. He brushes a finger over a nipple and your breath catches in your throat.

“Kriff look at you” he mutters as if he’s speaking to himself. Then he’s leaning down and wrapping his mouth around your nipple, his fingers lightly tugging at your other one.

“Cross” you keen, arching your back to press your chest further into his warm mouth. You feel the low groan he makes.

“Say my name like that again” he murmurs into your skin, and you oblige him as he switches sides. He moves, sucking a mark onto your chest, before he presses a sweet kiss to it. Your breath hitches and you feel your heart skip a beat. Here he is marking you as his before he’s switching to become soft and gentle.

He doesn’t remain at your chest for very long. He continues to trail down your body, licking and sucking gently as he goes, until he’s hooking his fingers under the waistband of your pants.

“Are you alright with this?” He asks, looking up at you from between your thighs. The sight of him sends heat burning through you.

“Crosshair please” you whine. You sound absolutely desperate, but you don’t care. Whatever it takes to get him to finally undress you.

His eyes darken at your words and he’s tugging your pants and underwear down in one swoop, shoving them on the floor so he can finally get a look at you. You feel a little self conscious under his gaze for a moment but he takes it all away when he looks back up at you again.

“You’re stunning” he rasps, moving back up your body to kiss you deeply again, his tongue exploring your mouth expertly. You run your hands over his back, taking him in, but they quickly move to grip his shoulders when his fingers swipe through your folds. You gasp into his mouth and he pulls away so he can hear the noise you make as he presses a single long finger into you.

“Look at you,” he groans, “so wet and tight and making the prettiest noises for me.” You moan at his words, but also the rough sound of his voice as he starts thrusting his finger, searching for the little spot that’ll have you seeing stars. You let out a cry when he brushes over it, clenching tightly around his finger. He smirks at your reaction before inserting a second finger.

“You feel so good” you groan, loving the stretch from his fingers alone. He picks up his pace, fingers moving rapidly, leaving you moaning and squirming beneath him. You can feel your release building and building. You’re almost there, you just need a little more to get you there.

“Crosshair” you plead, not quite able to find the words to convey how close you are. He can tell though, the way you squeeze and flutter around his fingers is indication enough. He presses his thumb to your neglected clit, tracing short tight circles over it as he leans down, mouth brushing at your ear.

“Come on doll, show me how gorgeous you look coming around my fingers.”

His simple command muttered in his rough voice sends you flying over the edge. You grip at his shoulders desperately as you clench around his fingers. He continues his movements, working you through your orgasm until your grip on him loosens. He places sweet kisses along your neck as he removes his fingers and lets you come down from your high.

You pant a little as you catch your breath, but as Crosshair shifts above you, you feel his length brush over your thigh and you feel your arousal and need growing again. As he continues to lather your neck with kisses, your hands move to his pants, quickly unbuttoning them. Just as you go to push them down you pause, looking up at the man above you.

“Can I touch you?” You ask. Crosshair lets out a groan, leaning down to press his forehead against yours.

“Please” he murmurs. You push his pants down enough to get them out of the way before you take his hard length into your hand. He’s long and oh so pretty. Your mouth waters at the sight of him. You want nothing more than to flip him over and to taste him.

“Next time doll,” Crosshair says as if he can read your mind. “As nice as having your mouth on me would be, I need to be in you. Now.”

You pump his length a few times, which earns you a groan through gritted teeth and a warning look from him. You smile up at him sweetly which he chuckles darkly at.

“Looks like I underestimated you, doll. Looks like you can handle me just fine.” He grabs your hands, pinning them above your head with one hand, the other making quick work of shoving his pants off before lining the head of his cock up to your entrance.

His movements were so swift and effortless it leaves you breathless and speechless for a moment. He doesn’t give you long to gather your wits before he is pushing into you with a smooth thrust. It completely knocks your breath out of you. You try to move your hands, needing desperately to grab hold of something, anything to ground yourself, but his grip on your wrists remains firm. You gasp as you clench around him, trying to adjust to his size.

“Fuck Crosshair! You’re so big. You’re s’good” you slur. He gives you his insufferable smirk, but you can’t find it in yourself to care at the moment.

“My babydoll is drunk on my cock and I haven’t even moved yet” Crosshair teases, pride written across his features. This sobers you up a little.

“Just shut up and move” you grumble. Crosshair kisses you, remaining annoyingly still inside you. You whine into the kiss. When he pulls away, he begins to pull out.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he says before he thrusts back into you, beginning a steady pace. You cry out at his deep thrusts and his quick pace right off the bat.

“That’s right. Let all the neighbours hear just how good I’m making you feel.” He changes his angle slightly as he says this, hitting your sweet spot deliciously, causing you to moan loudly as you clench around him.

“Only you make me feel this way Cross,” you manage to stutter out, brain going hazy with the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Such a good girl for me. So wet and tight, all for me.” You whine at the praise, feeling the pressure of your release starting to build. He pushes into you harder, feeling your walls flutter around him. He presses his thumb to your clit, circling it intently.

“You’re close, I can feel it. Feel you clenching and fluttering around me. You feel divine doll. Now show me what you look like as you come on my cock. Let me hear all the pretty little sounds you’ll make.”

His words murmured in his husky voice send you over the edge. He lets go of your hands and they grip at his shoulders desperately, nails digging into his skin as you cry out his name over and over again, lost in the pleasure he is giving you. Just as you’re beginning to come down from your high his hips begin to stutter.

“So good for me. You’re so good for me. Where-?” He asks hurriedly.

“Inside. Please” you beg. He groans deeply as he gives a few more thrust before you can feel the warmth of him spilling into you. He collapses onto you for a moment while the two of you catch your breaths. The weight of him is comforting and you can feel his heart beating against your chest. A content warmth settles in your chest as you draw aimless shapes across his back. The gesture seems to bring him back to his body. He pulls out of you and rolls off you, causing you to whine at the loss. He chuckles as he pulls you into him, wrapping you up in his arms.

“Don’t worry doll, I’m not going anywhere.”

He brings the blanket up over the both of you and you feel so safe and warm. You bask in the feeling for a moment.

“I meant everything I said you know.” Your voice is quiet, laced with sleepiness. “I really do want you. If you’ll have me.” Crosshair doesn’t respond, but his grip around you tightens.

You’re fast asleep when he finally does respond, his words a gentle whisper into your hair.

"You just stood there," you snapped, tossing off your formal coat as you stormed into your apartment. The door slid shut behind the lieutenant in tow with a heavy hiss. "Like every word I said didn’t mean a damn thing."

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he removed his helmet slowly, jaw clenched. "What did you expect me to do, speak out in front of the whole chamber like I’m some kind of diplomat?”

"I expected you to care!” you yelled, turning to face him. "They're your brothers! The Senate talked about you all like you're tools, not people! And you just stood there like it didn’t matter to you at all!”

His eyes flashed. "Don’t question what matters to me.” 

The air crackled with unspoken words. 

"I fight every day for them," he growled, stepping forward. "I bleed for them. I’ve watched them die for this Republic, for senators who don’t even know our names. For you! Don’t talk to me about silence, I’m choking on it every single night!” 

Your breath caught. He was so close now, voice shaking with rage and frustration, desperation, even. The tension only wound up tighter. 

“You think I’m quiet because I don’t care?” he said. “I’m quiet because no one listens. Because it’s easier to shut my mouth than let it suffocate me, knowing that it never makes a difference.”

"Then say something now," you whispered. "I have fought for so long to be your voice. Say what you're really thinking."

“You really want to hear it?” he snapped. “Fine. I think you’re reckless. I think you’re going to get yourself killed trying to fix a system that doesn’t want to change.”

He paused. His jaw locked.

“And?” you pushed.

He closed the space between you in one step, rested his forehead against yours like he was trying to steady himself. His gloved hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing the curve of your face with a gentleness that undercut the sharpness of the air.

You leaned into his touch without thinking. Some of the heat in your blood: anger, maybe guilt, melted under his palm. Affection bloomed in your chest. 

“And I think about you. All the time, cyar’ika. When I’m supposed to be counting the exits. When I’m standing behind you while you’re putting a target on your own back. When I’m there, hands at my sides, pretending I haven’t memorised what it feels like to touch you.”

Your throat tightened. The term of endearment hit low in your chest. It was the kind of word that stuck. The one he called you even after the nights ended, the doors closed, and you both pretended like none of this had ever happened.

“When I see you smile at the others,” he added, voice lower now. “And I have to act like it doesn’t do something to me.” His hand slipped to your waist, fingers toying with your robes. He didn’t pull away. “I’m not supposed to want this. Any of this,” he muttered. “But maker, I do.”

You didn’t answer. Your body moved before your brain could catch up– reaching for his collar, dragging him in– and your back hit the wall harder than you meant. His mouth found yours, and that was it. 

It was angry. Desperate, and so achingly familiar.

His kiss tasted like frustration and guilt and all the quiet hours you’d spent pretending you didn’t need this. The prickles of his beard brushed against your chin, and you mewled softly into his mouth. He ate your sounds up eagerly, tongue tasting your mouth with fervour. 

His gloves hit the floor. Then a pauldron. Another. His kama. The sound of metal and fastenings on tile echoed through the room, careless now. His hands were on your thighs, gripping and kneading, and then you were in the air, legs locked around his waist securely. 

You gasped against his lips, fingers tugging at the hems of his blacks.

“You drive me insane,” he growled into your neck, voice rough and honest. 

You bit down on a sound that could’ve been a laugh, could’ve been a sob. His breath tickled the delicate skin.

“Then shut up,” you breathed, cupping his jaw and tilting his head back just enough to meet his eyes. “And do something about it.”

His hand slid down over your stomach, purposeful and certain, like he’d already planned his attack.

“Don’t make me beg,” you whispered.

“Never,” he purred.

Clothes had been tugged, shoved, cast aside by frantic hands. Your nerves were sizzling, and your senses were overwhelmed with friction, skin, heat, desire. His mouth didn’t stay in one place for long: your neck, your collarbone, the skin below your navel, your inner thigh. And then he was on his knees, eye-level with your clothed sex. A position that was the most natural for a soldier bred to obey, but there was nothing submissive about the way he did it.

You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails biting into the thick, full muscle. He groaned. 

“This doesn’t leave this room,” you managed, your voice wrecked and breathless.

He gave a short laugh, more exhale than amusement. “No one’s asking.”

His hands slid slowly up your thighs, eyes never leaving yours. He curled his fingers into the waistband of your last layer and tugged with purpose. He tugged the garment down your legs, and then you were bare in front of him– his hands on your hips, his mouth hovering just shy of your skin. And then it was quiet, save for your breathing and the faint hum of Coruscant traffic bleeding in through the glass.

A blush burnt high on your cheeks. His face was so close to you. 

“Jesse.”

“Let me,” he said. His voice was low, calm, serious. Like he’d made peace with every rule he was about to break.

The pad of his thumb dipped between your folds, just lightly rubbing up and down over the slickness. You whined when he grazed over your clit. 

“I follow orders all day.” His deep brown eyes were fixated on where your arousal was glistening on his fingers. “Let me do this.”

He looked up at you for a moment, as if seeking a last permission. You swallowed and nodded. 

And then his mouth was on you.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against your entrance, letting your essence soak his tongue before licking up with one slow, languid movement. His hands stayed firm on your hips, holding you steady as your fingers curled into the fabric of his blacks. A breathless curse slipped from your lips and your eyes clamped shut when his lips brushed against your clit, curving against you to suck at your bundle of nerves. The roughness on his chin tickled the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. 

The man beneath you groaned and purred, his sounds entwining with your own in an intimate dance of desire. He tried to ignore it and focus on his task of pleasing you, but his cock was so hard it was almost splitting his blacks. Ever the selfless lover, he remained steadfast in his goal, lips and tongue trained on your pussy. 

He moved like he had been reading you—taking cues from the way your thighs tried to press against his head, from each little cry and gasp that left your lips. Every reaction was feedback. Reward. His fingertips dug into the flesh of your hips with each quiet sound you made, grounding you as he worked, methodical and deliberate.

He was not impatient. Jesse savoured everything. He kept up a steady rhythm, working you over with the slickness of his tongue in a way that had you arching your back against the wall and rolling your hips to meet his mouth, desperate for more. That’s when he gripped your thighs harder and held you still. 

Your eyes snapped open and you looked down at him in protest, lips still parted in a breathy moan. 

He pulled away slightly. “Don’t rush it,” he murmured against you, voice low, rough with restraint. “I want to feel you fall apart slowly. Patience, cyar’ika.” 

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just intent.

Then he continued his onslaught: tongue wet, firm and deliberate, working you in slow, devastating drags that left your thighs trembling. Your fingers brushed against the little spikes of hair at the back of his head, just to ground yourself, and the groan that vibrated against your clit almost undid you completely. 

His hands held you tightly, steadying you. One arm snaked around your lower back to hold you in place, his forearm solid against your spine, anchoring you like he knew just how close you were. He wanted it. All of it: your sounds, your pleasure, the complete loss of your usual composure.  

You glanced down again and the sight nearly wrecked you. 

Jesse was watching you. Watching everything. Every breath. Every twitch. Every time your head rocked back against the wall. His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy with the kind of focused desperation you usually only saw when he got back from a rough mission. His jaw flexed as he adjusted his rhythm again—tongue flicking tighter, faster, and then slowing just before it was too much. Like he was delaying the inevitable.

His chin was glistening with you. His cheeks were pink. But he was not chasing his own pleasure, he was laser-focused on controlling yours. On dragging you to the edge and holding you there. Not out of cruelty of spite, but out of purpose. To give you even more. To prove himself in giving, rather than taking. 

“Jesse…” your voice was barely there. A whisper pulled from somewhere deep within you. 

He heard it. He felt it. But he didn’t respond with words this time.

Instead, his mouth moved with intent, more pressure. He wasn’t overpowering or dominating you, he was working you. Like giving you pleasure was a skill to be honed, and he is the only one he ever wanted to practice on. A soldier’s precision applied to something personal, messy, and vulnerable. Because giving you this was the only thing that felt fully his.

You felt the moment he started to lose rhythm. Not from lack of control, but from how much he was giving. His breathing grew heavier against you, and you heard a low, aching groan vibrate against your clit, like he was overwhelmed with the scent of you, the taste, the weight of your body trembling in his hands. 

But yet, it wasn’t enough. 

One of his hands slid away from your hip. His fingers dragged slowly between your legs, and when he eased two inside you, it was seamless. Like he had been waiting to fill that space, to know you even deeper, and your body was perfectly ready for him. His mouth never left your clit, but now his fingers matched that rhythm, curling inside your soft, warm walls with subtle precision, pressing into the spot that made your knees weak.

He moaned again—softer this time, needy, and you glanced down.

His eyes were closed.

He wasn’t looking for approval. He wasn’t showing off. He was so fully focused on how your body was moving, how your breath hitched every time his tongue slid just right. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his brows pulled together, as if he were trying to memorise your reactions with muscle memory alone.

His hand on your hip moved to the inside of your thigh, gently but firmly spreading you wider. The way he touched you was reverent but solid: like you were something delicate, but he was the only one who got to keep you from breaking.

And gods, you were so close.

Your fingers pressed into his shoulders, nails digging into fabric and flesh, but he didn’t falter. He didn’t stop to ask if you were nearly there. Didn’t slow down. He kept giving—deeper, faster, controlled, but unrelenting. Your orgasm stirred and coiled low in your stomach, hot and tight, until it snapped, all at once and entirely overwhelming. 

You cried out his name. Stars bounced behind your eyelids as your entire form arched towards him, writhing, trembling and weak. Your senses sung with a pleasant cocktail of lust, affection and dopamine as your toes curled against the tiles and your muscles tensed.

Jesse groaned, full and wrecked, as he kept his mouth on you, licking through every wave like he needed to collect every drop of your come, feel every spasm of your body. He didn’t stop until you grabbed his head and eased him away, and even then, he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, and then one above your mons. A soldier swearing loyalty in silence. You tried not to squirm too much when his whiskers tickled you.  

He stayed on his knees for a moment longer. Breathing hard. Eyes opening to gaze up at you, hearts swirling in his pupils. His mouth was wet. His voice was rough. “Still standing?” he asked with a crooked smile, cheeks red.

Somehow there was more satisfaction in that look than you’d ever seen whilst he was in armour. 

“Barely…” you managed, panting, skin flushed, legs still trembling like a newborn foal. 

Wrecker

You’re sitting on the edge of the steel counter, pregnancy test in hand as you wait for it to develop. No matter how many times you’ve done this same old song and dance, the anxiety in these minutes never changes. You and Wrecker have done everything by the book, even asking for Tech’s expertise in nutrient dense foods that would help improve your diet as well as your chances.

“What’s it say?” Wrecker comes up behind you, peeking over your shoulder at the little strip of paper.

“I don’t know, Wreck…” You mutter disappointingly at the lack of results. “I have a feeling this time isn’t going to be any different.”

“That’s no way to think. Who else am I going to share Lula with?” Wrecker is already practicing how to hold a baby, using his plushy tooka cat as a stand in. “I just know she’s going to love her.”

“What makes you so sure it’s going to be a girl?” You ask, looking at him in the mirror.

“I got a feeling.” He discloses, falling in love with your gaze every time it meets his. “She’ll have your eyes.”

“Well, here’s the moment of truth.” You exhale all the breath from your lungs, holding it while you flip the strip over.

It’s right there plain as day. Those two extremely bold lines staring right back at you. After suffering devastation after devastation of negative results, the latter cannot be disputed.

“Wait, doesn’t that mean-” Wrecker’s sentence is interrupted when you shriek with glee.

“We did it!” You jump into his arms, tossing the test aside so that you can be held by him. “Wrecker, the test is positive!”

“Ha-ha! I knew it!” He holds you close to himself, spinning you around a couple times, careful not to hit your head on the ceiling. “I told ya!”

“I stand corrected.” You beam at him, leaning in to kiss his lips. “I should have never doubted us.”

Due to this being a heavily anticipated event, preparations become a collective effort. Echo outsources the very same onesies given to freshly decanted clone infants, amassing enough for a wardrobe fit to dress the little one while Hunter and Crosshair take it upon themselves to build a cozy little crib in the barracks as well as a mobile hovering pram. As your due date nears, this once wishful notion has transitioned into reality.

One morning, you decide to keep sleeping a while longer than usual. Your spine has been aching since the night before. At first, you think it’s because you accidentally found yourself sleeping on your back, but the spasms tell you that you’ll regret getting up, opting to stay in the covers as long as possible.

Hours go by and it’s impossible to register just how late you’ve overslept. You weren’t even lucid enough to see your squad off, consciousness finally finding you upon their return.

“Have you been in bed all day?” Wrecker asks while his brothers file into the barracks, each of them setting down the gear they’re carrying so they can relax.

“Yeah, I guess I… I don’t know.” You rub the sleep from your eyes, scratching your scalp to stimulate yourself awake. “I’m really tired for some reason.”

Wrecker takes a knee beside his cot, inspecting you closer when he sees droplets accumulating on your brow line. “Is that sweat? Tech, come see if she’s got a temperature.”

Tech makes his way towards you, though he does not need any special device to see you’re running a scorching fever. You are terribly weak, gray in the face with a purple tinge to your lips. “She’s burning up.”

“It’s probably just a hot flash, you guys.” You dismiss them, shooing away their motivations to inspect you. “I’m fine. A little dizzy is all.” 

Echo peers into the bunk with a suggestion. “Perhaps running a bath will regulate her temperature.”

“Good idea.” Hunter confirms with a nod. “Help her up, Wrecker.”

You wrap your arms around Wrecker’s neck, using his strength to keep you upright as they ease you out of the cot. Tech pulls the blanket back to reveal your lower extremities, horrified to see a massive blood stain taking up the majority of the plush surface beneath you. You are completely oblivious to it, but the others cannot take their eyes off the sight. 

Wrecker begins to gasp in fright, but Hunter impedes this reaction by giving him a nudge on the arm. Wrecker exchanges a series of sharp glances and fierce head tilts with Hunter, communicating in a way that does not alarm you. They tell each other to remain stoic, calm and collected. The last thing they need is to give you any reason to be hysterical.

“We’re just going to take a little trip to the ‘fresher, okay?” Echo tells you while Wrecker pulls you from the bunk, encouraging you to get your feet under you. He doesn’t wish to move you too intensely, thinking twice about picking you up and running you there himself, so he operates by the grace of your feeble movements. 

Wrecker thinks you’re doing a fine job of wobbling there, but it’s like a switch is flipped and all that exertion was more than enough to overwhelm you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you collapse in Wrecker’s grasp. He has no choice but to bear all your weight to prevent you from slamming to the floor, lifting you into his arms in order to do what it takes to save you.

You’re completely absent from this point forward with no idea how you made it to the med bay in a set of clean clothes with that ache in your back actually fading away. You feel refreshed, like you caught up on that sleep debt you’ve been lacking, but something is missing. It is only at this point you notice the unsettling sight of Wrecker sobbing into his hands. Why is he so sad? What happened?

You move your hand towards him, resting your palm on his knee. Your singular touch knocks him out of his harrowing trance. His head perks up right when you make contact. His eyes tell you everything you need to know. All the mystery and confusion shatters to reveal your woeful reality. Two words. That’s all it takes. Two words harboring the capacity to break you to pieces.

“I’m sorry…” Wrecker apologizes through shaky breath, taking your hands in his. Is this what a little death feels like? She’s gone, and so too is a piece of you. You can’t help but think you’re at fault.

“Is this…” You start, finding it difficult to enunciate the proper inquiry. “Did I cause this?”

“What? No! No, of course not!” Wrecker shuts your assumption down, wiping the moisture from his eyes and clearing his throat to talk to you better. “None of this is your fault. Okay? None of it.”

“Then what happened?” You feel cheated out of the truth, demanding to know more. “Could anything have been done?”

“It won’t do you any good to think like that.” Wrecker tells you with caution. “There’s no one or anything we can pin this on. It just happened.”

You sit there quiet and devastated for a while, letting a waterfall of tears flow from your eyes. Wrecker lays his head on your lap, hugging you sweetly while you both cry together, mourning this tragic loss.

After a few moments, Wrecker pulls his head up to look at you, disrupting the painful science to offer some comfort. “Bottom line, you are not to blame. It’s up to you if you want to try again. Look at me.”

Your head is lifted from its despondently slumped position, his large hands caressing your cheeks. He traces your lips with his thumbs before kissing them. Your eyelashes glisten, sparkling in a perimeter around his features. You whimper in his hold, falling apart as he hugs you. 

“You are not flawed. You are perfect. I still love you.” Wrecker has answered every rambling question in your mind. The undying whimpers return, and you pull the cork on the incoming flood of emotion. You bury your face in the sweet spot beneath his chin, crying together as his shoulders rise and fall with the collective weeping, petting your head tenderly.

Echo

You’ve been waiting for him to return. Echo’s been going on back-to-back missions without even a few hours reprieve between each one. For proficiency purposes, he departs with Rex and a few additional troopers you’ve yet to get properly acquainted with, keeping things close-knit. As much as you’d love to join them, they deny your involvement purely for the fact that they operate better as an unaltered unit. Having you around no doubt poses as a distraction to Echo that he will never admit.

“Hey, do you have a second to talk?” You approach Echo with a timid urgency, but you can already tell the answer might not be what you’re looking for.

“Can it maybe wait until I get back?” Echo responds while never taking his eyes off the utility bag he’s packing. “The boys and I were just heading out and I’m needed for inspection.”

“Uh… yeah. Sure. It’s fine.” You make the uneasiness in your voice rather obvious, but Echo is far too wrapped up in his own priorities to give you the attention you need. You want to say, ‘But you’re already back.’ but the words never make it out right. “Be safe.”

“I always am.” He shoulders his bag and presses his lips to yours, then to your forehead. “Love you.”

“Love you too…” You mutter just above a whisper, watching as Echo leaps on board a roaring shuttle with a handful of other troops. The bustling ruins of a monastery on Teth serve as the current clone hideout. Despite being surrounded by members of the alliance, you have never felt so alone. You know you’re supposed to feel at home here, but you will always believe you’re out of place without Echo by your side. Once they disappear high into the atmosphere, you retrieve the pregnancy test tucked away in the back pocket of your jumpsuit, tossing it into an incinerator a few steps away.

You track the minutes he’s gone, logging every agonizing second spent waiting for him. You can only clean so many guns and take so many walks before the anxiety catches up to you. A day and a half has slipped by, and you’re certain you would have heard from him by now, but his timing lands a bit closer to dinner time.

The unmistakable chirp of your comm device resounds loudly, echoing off the stone walls of the monastery. You press the top of the hologram puck and his transparent silhouette manifests before your eyes in the brightest shade of blue. You smile upon seeing him, but your mind is plagued by the news you’ve yet to deliver. Sadly, you second guess telling him, scared of diverting him from his current task. You debate with yourself heavily on letting him know, deciding not to after all.

“Hey!” Your chipper attitude is sure to do the trick in hiding your true feelings. “How is everything?”

“Slower than we expected.” He sighs, exhaustion laid thick through his tone. “These mines haven’t been touched in centuries. It’s going to take a while just to breach the entryways.”

“I have faith you boys will get the ball rolling.” You smile at him, wishing you could yank him through the hologram and into your space. “So… when do you think you’ll be back?”

“We’re playing it by ear for now.” Echo shrugs and you deflate visibly. “There’s a lot at stake right now if we don’t get the resources we need out of here.”

“There’s more than you realize.” You fold your arms, unable to conceal your impatience any longer.

“I’m doing this so we have a future.” Echo explains, and you curse yourself for making him repeat himself on the subject. “You know that.”

“We already have a future.” The argument hits his ears, but it does not carry the same meaning you said it with.

“I know.” Echo confirms, but he truly doesn’t have a clue. “I’m trying to make it stronger. Impervious to all threats.”

“No, I mean we have one now.” You lean closer to the hologram, pained by the communication discrepancies you’re forced to hurdle through. “Us.”

“The boys have another line rigged to blow. You ready?” Rex’s voice calls Echo away from you, slamming the wedge ever deeper.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.” Echo gives him a nod, waving at him out of frame before looking at you one last time. “We’ll talk about this when I return. I promise.”

“When will that be?” You feel a surge of emotions simmer within you, a mixture of shattered spirits and downtrodden anger.

“You’ll be the first to know.” He adds, his arm extending forward to end the transmission. “I love you.”

“Love you too…” You cannot hold back, letting the tears fall as an accent to this less-than-optimal good-bye when the hologram disappears.

You go to sleep that night rather late. It’s a restless pursuit, unable to get comfortable with your mind running nonstop. Tossing and turning, you flip-flop into every position imaginable and cannot find a single shred of respite. Seeking a form of reset, you stand from your bed, tossing the sheets off you in a frustrated motion so that you can navigate to the lavatory.

Pulling the waistband of your pajama bottoms down, you sit yourself down on the basin. Once finished doing your business, you reach for some sterile tissue to clean yourself. However, when prompted to spread your knees in order to do so, a harrowing sight is found hiding within your undergarments.

“No…” You pull on the fabric, examining the dark red spot. After a confirming swipe with the tissue, you realize it’s none other than your monthly dropping in to ruin your mood even more. “Seriously?!”

You discard the remainder of your clothes to the dirty laundry, hopping into the walk-in shower stall to rinse yourself off and change into a fresh set of pajamas. You feel lied to, but was it your hormones or the test that did the fibbing? You regret even more being so cynical over comms with Echo. Why are you trying to start a fight when he’s light-years away blowing out gorges in mountains?

Giving up on sleep, you finish your shower and decide to toss the soiled garments into the cleansing unit, setting it to start with a fresh canister of suds and leaving it to do its thing. The morning sun is blocked out by a thick overcast and you grumble to yourself about not getting to see the marvelous spread of colors. Instead, you see something with a different fortune entirely.

A shuttle has dropped into orbit. Its course is heading straight for your little quadrant of the monastery. With various gardens and entryways, you cannot ascertain why someone so official would be seeking an audience with you this early. You rush to make yourself presentable, slipping on a leather jacket over your pajamas and running a comb through your hair. 

The ship powers down, its drive cone no longer emitting powerful gusts of air on the perimeter outside. You step out, arms folded in meek acknowledgement. You wait for the boarding hatch to deploy before sending your arm out to wave in greeting.

It is not the numerous platoon you were expecting, but a lone trooper. Your trooper. Echo.

You run towards him, disbanding any and all grudges you might have been harboring so that you can leap into his arms. 

“Woah!” Echo drops the gear he is carrying and catches you dependably. His scomp slightly jabs you in the ribs, but you don’t care. You’re just happy that he’s here with you again. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course I did, you dummy.” You squeeze him tightly, breathing his scent in. “What are you doing back so soon?”

Echo takes a step back, looking into your eyes. “It didn’t sit right with me leaving you like that. Rex is fully capable of handling the operation himself so that I can focus on you.”

Upon this realization, you distance yourself, upset that he did all this for nothing. 

“What’s that look?” Echo can see the grief in your eyes, lifting your head by the chin. “Is something wrong?”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” You shake him off and he lets his hand fall to his side.

“What you said had me a little worried.” You know he’s talking to you from a place of regret, but you don’t know how you’re going to break this news to him. “Our future, what did you mean by that?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” You begin to turn away from him, but he takes you by the arm, stopping you in your tracks.

“Hey, don’t blow this off.” He can see the damp strands of hair still dripping with water from your shower. Your eyes are puffy and red. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. “What happened between now and the last time we spoke?”

You sit down on the boarding ramp; imploring Echo join in beside you. He settles in close, blinking repeatedly as he waits for you to explain. After a set of deep breaths, you are ready to let him in on what you’ve been going through. “When you left before, I really needed to tell you something, but it felt like if I did, I would be taking your passion away from the cause.” 

“You know you mean more to me than that.” Echo’s assumption almost meets you half-hearted, his autopilot outlook still showing

“Sometimes you forget to show it.” You tell him bitingly.

“And that’s on me.” Echo registers the venom in your tone as he wraps an arm around you. “I am here now and I’m not going anywhere.”

There is a long pause. Now is the time for you to tell him and it takes more strength than you’re willing to muster. Regardless, you rip the bacta patch off and come right out and say it. “I thought I was pregnant.”

Echo’s breath catches in his throat, clearing it before he speaks. “Wait, you thought?” 

“I took a test because I was late.” You heave another deep sigh, your shame weighing you down even more. “It was positive. At least, that’s what it said.”

Echo pinches the pant leg of your pajamas. It’s obvious they’re a fresh pair, the pleats where they were folded in the drawer are still visible. He knows you like to shower at the start of your cycle because it makes you feel clean. “That wasn’t the case, was it?”

You pull your knees to your chest, a defensive posture speaking for itself when you refuse to answer.

“I-I am so sorry.” Echo stutters, shocked by his oblivious selfishness. He is saddened that you didn’t tell him before but understands and repents for not being your safe place to reconvene. “I would never want you to think I see you as an afterthought.”

“It wasn’t a nice feeling…” You enunciate with your jaw resting on your knees. “The future you were talking about is clearly different from what I picture in my mind. I guess you could say you dodged a bolt.”

“No.” Echo shuts your claims down, refusing to embrace your defeatist outlook. “I would love whatever future awaits us if that happens to be true one day.”

“But the Rebellion-” 

“I didn’t join so that things could stay the same.” Echo cuts you off, a warm hand threading into your dampened locks. “I joined so that the generations that follow us have something to live for. I put the cause before you, when you give me inspiration, I need to embrace both. I hope you’ll forgive me for that.”

“Forgive you for what?” You smile jokingly, uplifting the mood already.

“Exactly.” Echo chuckles with you as the rays of sun just barely start slicing through the clouds.

Hunter

“No, I’m not!” You vehemently argue against Hunter’s claims, avoidantly walking fast ahead of him. “No matter what you say, I know my body and there’s no way I’m pregnant.”

“Your scent. It’s different. Stronger. And you’re retaining more water.” Hunter goes on, trailing behind you, struggling to keep up. “I can tell that your arms and feet are a bit swollen. Not to mention these cravings.”

“It’s normal for me to develop a hankering for weird stuff near my period!” Your reasoning is shallow, and you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“Yes, things like chocolate and seafood, but when you cry because you can taste the dirt your stewed vegetables were harvested from, I think that’s cause to look into it.” Hunter is so gentle with you, guiding you to heed the caution in his voice.

“I had been wanting that all day,” you tell him, defeated, “and I couldn’t stomach a single bite…”

“Let’s just rule it out.” Hunter drapes his strong arms around your shoulders, pulling you into his space. “Together.”

“Fine.” You accept his offer, walking with him to the clone med bay. You don’t know why you’re so embarrassed. Perhaps it’s because you’re apprehensive to learn what you already believe to be true.

“According to these results, you are precisely one month along. Congratulations.” The frightfully tall and slender medical attendant conducting your exams relays to you flatly with a begrudging sigh. The drag in each syllable of his speech strikes at Hunter’s patience when it takes him forever to utter a single sentence. AZI isn’t here like usual, so you’re being looked over by one of the Kaminoan staff, unfamiliar and rather impersonal. You feel like a burden just being here, demanding his services when it’s clearly a part of his job. 

Just as he’s about to depart without another word, Hunter stops him with a stern grip of his arm. “Wait just a second. Aren’t you going to give us recommendations or instructions for what to do next?”

He glares at Hunter with his massive emotionless eyes, a pretentious look of disgust when he dares to lay a hand on him. “Early human gestation is subject to change. Come back in a few weeks if your condition persists.”

The towering individual saunters away, leaving through the sliding blast doors while you and Hunter gawk disapprovingly at his departure.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?” You ask Hunter, puzzled by the lack of involvement in a medical official retaining this information.

“I guess that’s his way of telling us no to worry about it.” Hunter shakes his head when the door is resealed, feeling overlooked and discarded.

“Easier said than done.” You admit, rubbing circles over your stomach.

“Come on. Let’s head to the mess and get some of your favorite pudding.” Hunter assists you in hopping off the bench, easing your stance when you realize all this new information has you feeling dizzy.

“That’s a good idea.” You smile at him, walking hand in hand to the cafeteria.

You have since given into Hunter’s pampering and prepping. He treats you like you’re made of glass, waiting on you hand and foot when you don’t wish to be coddled. You adore him and everything he’s doing for you, but he doesn’t have to change so drastically. You’re not fragile, you’re just taking on something new. It’s not unlike being put on a new mission or learning how to pilot an exotic ship.

You are coming up on the agreed date you and Hunter decided to return to the clinic. Day in and day out, he has been there. It’s not that you want space from him, but you can’t help but feel like you’re adding so much additional stress to his mental load, one that is already brimming with priorities.

“Where are you going?” You stand up from where you’re sitting in your shared bunk, making your way across the barracks floor to reach the refresher.

“Don’t worry. I’m just going to relieve myself.” You wave at him in dismissal. “Nothing serious that you need to intervene for.”

“Very funny.” Hunter flashes you a grin. “Hurry back.”

“Will do!” The door slides closed behind you, and you do your business. After washing your hands, you aim to give yourself a sort of encouraging pep talk in the mirror.

“Listen, Hunter.” You start in practice, whispering to your reflection. “I know you’re only trying to help, but I don’t want to be treated differently.”

The more you rehearse your lines; a burning sensation emerges in your lower abdomen. You are familiar with the one-off twinge and spasm, but something about this feels different. It feels wrong.

You are plagued by a heaviness you cannot ignore. Heat spreads through your undergarments and you pull your waistband away from yourself to inspect when the cursed sight of crimson is seen staining your clothes.

“No! Oh, no no!” You scramble to pull your pants down a bit more, shocked by how bright the blood is. Reaching a hand down to feel yourself, you retract your fingers only to see them completely painted. Your shorts have completely soaked through, and droplets appear on the floor between your feet. “What is happening?” 

“Everything okay in there?” Hunter is sure to notice you’re taking far too long for a simple bathroom break. You fall rigid upon hearing his voice, heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“Be out in a minute!” You holler in response, putting all your effort into making your voice sound normal.

Upon turning to waddle your way back to the toilet, you slip on some of the blood caught beneath your bare feet. The tumble down is undeniably audible as you collide with the steel walls and polished flooring.

“What was that?” Hunter tries to open the door, but you’ve code locked it from the outside. 

“N-nothing!” You hastily respond, but you fear you’ve made your distress too obvious, so you offer a reasonable explanation to your unease. “I’m just… dealing with some cramps.”

“Should we go to the clinic?” He suggests, his muffled voice still full of urgency. “I can track down AZI and-”

“Please, Hunter! Just go away!” He cannot ignore the tremble in your words as you talk through the pain. Then it hits him, the air tainted by potent notes of iron.

Hunter does not wait for a word of approval from you, going against your wishes just this one time with the intent to rescue. His heart sinks with the thought of what he might see beyond this door, overriding the controls in order to enter.

Hunter practically rips the exterior panel off the module, severing and relinking wires until something gives. 

“I told you to go!” Hunter rushes inside. The breach in your self-isolation instills you with a foreboding rage that forces you to lash out at him when logic says he’s operating with your best in mind. You scream the words at him, tossing a metal tin of facial tissue in his direction. It does not scare him off. In fact, it draws him in. His heart breaks at the sight of you sitting on the floor, in the middle of this stained and smeared puddle. 

You choke back broken sobs as Hunter looks over the evidence of you trying to clean up on your own but failing miserably. Hunter knows exactly what happened. He steps carefully into the blood, the soles of his boots soaking it up. He kneels beside you, stopping your attempts with a gentle pair of hands over yours. 

“I’m sorry…” You sniffle, feeling culpable for the chaos. “I made a mess.”

“Shh...” Hunter quells your apologies while wrapping a large smock taken from a nearby cabinet around you to preserve your decency. “Don’t be.”

“I guess there’s no reason to go to our follow-up appointment.” You debate with him sarcastically.

“Don’t say that.” Hunter argues. “We’re going to the clinic if I have to take you there myself. We need to get this bleeding under control at least.”

Hunter glances into the waste basin, gulping in dread at its contents. You speak up, knowing he’s conflicted. “I know it’s gone, but please… don’t flush it. Doesn’t seem right.”

Hunter peers down at you, his face so close to yours. The sorrow in his eyes spells every shred of love he feels for you, stopping at nothing to ease your tortured heart.

He straightens his posture, standing up to approach the basin. “Look away.”

You pull the smock over your shoulders, hiding your face in the thin fabric. This creates a dense obscurity to block out your senses, unable to stomach the sound of its removal before Hunter activates the flushing mechanism. The noise gets your attention, and you look over to see him holding a small container, upcycled from one of the empty tissue boxes. He passes it to you before hoisting you into his arms, knowing you must feel an overwhelming attachment to the potential that was once desired.

You hold onto his chest plate as he walks, clinging to him like your life depends on it. He keeps you hidden within the smock, sprinting out the door and towards the clinic. Hunter reaches his destination, and you are immediately deposited onto a hovering gurney where a trio of medical droids work to stabilize you. You’re medically sedated and pumped full of painkillers while they put a stop to your blood flow. The process doesn’t take long. Within an hour or two, you are clean and resting in the recovery ward with Hunter right by your side.

That same Kaminoan medical attendant is monitoring your state, ensuring that things remain optimal when he decides to open his big mouth. “This was to be expected. Clone DNA is unpredictable.”

Hunter just dodged the bullet of a lifetime thinking you almost died, and this guy thinks he can just cast judgement? He begins to seethe where he stands, fists clenching at his sides as he tries to pacify the desire to lunge right at him and snap his skinny neck. 

“I’ll show you unpredictable.” Hunter begins to raise his fist, muttering the words under his breath as a precursor to this punch, but your own hand twitching about puts an end to his aggression.

“What happened?” You ask, scanning the room for the tissue box. “Where is it?”

“Slow down. Take a second and tell me how you’re feeling.” Hunter tries to delay delivering the news, not knowing how you will take it.

“I’ll feel better when I know what happened to it.” You sit up, groaning when you become acutely aware of the soreness all over.

“They tried to get me to put it in bio-disposal, but I didn’t want to throw it away like some tumor, so I took it to the incinerator myself.”

“You what!?” You holler at him, appalled by the worrisome connotations that word has.

“Look.” Hunter hands you a tubular vial filled to the brim with snow white ashes. “It’s here.”

You hold the vial in your hands, overcome by emotion as tears roll down your cheeks. “Why…?”

“For this.” Hunter points to a little flowerpot no larger than a dinner bowl, complete with a packet of seeds and a small sack of soil. “I figured we could plant it in the barracks when you get out of here.”

“Hunter… I don’t know what to say.” You roll the smoothness of the vial between your fingers, already thinking of seeing these ashes feed life and beauty to a plant you nurse together.

“Then don’t say anything.” He leans into your space, the tufts of fringe tickling your forehead. “Just kiss me.”

He lifts your jaw up, his lips softly molding to yours. “I love you.”

“I love you more.” You whisper in return, surrendering to his loving arms.

Not a day goes by when you don’t think about that fateful day, though, it’s made easier when you wake up every morning and see Hunter watering the bluebell squish plant thriving in the intensely hydrated environment of Kamino. Hunter grins at you while pouring water over the soil, that once emboldened sadness in his eyes now taking a backseat to showcase his joy in perseverance. Even if you couldn’t take care of your creation the way you wanted, you both pour just as much love and attention into the blooming flowers.

Crosshair

This isn’t the first morning you’ve skipped breakfast. Crosshair has taken note of your absence, searching for you down the semi-occupied hallways of the Kaminoan facility. With his head on a swivel, he examines each section diligently, saddened by the lack of your appearance no matter where he looks. He makes it all the way back to the barracks as a last resort, pleased to see you curled up in your bunk, albeit concerned for your well-being.

“Hey, we missed you at inspection.” Crosshair steps into the room after the sliding door closes behind him. You can feel the darkness of his shadow eclipse the dim overhead light. “Are you aiming to sleep all day?”

“If it were up to me, I would sleep all week.” You groan, pulling the blanket over your face while turning your back to him with a swift roll over in your bunk.

“Are you alright?” Crosshair isn’t one to pry, but he feels the need to speak up. “You haven’t been… yourself.”

“I think it’s just a persistent cold. I’m fine.” You shudder, trying to get yourself warm in hopes the room will stop spinning. “You don’t have to hover.”

“Heh, what if you’re pregnant.” He sits on the edge of your bunk, poking your spine softly.

You roll your eyes, nudging away from him stubbornly. “Don’t you wish that evil on me.”

“Don’t worry, that’s never going to happen. It can’t.” Crosshair adds with a finality in his voice that actually hurts. You’re in no way, shape or form capable of being a mother, at least that’s what you tell yourself, but did he outright shut down the idea when prompted? The delirium of your illness does not grant you the clarity you normally have, and you settle into your sulking, forever questioning the words he said. You remain silent, not knowing how to respond to that, so instead, he fills the void with his own departing words. “I know you won’t let me take you up there myself, but get yourself looked at, alright? For me.”

He stands up and leaves the room after giving your shoulder a squeeze while you lie there, mustering the strength to walk yourself to the medical bay. After a few minutes of heavy contemplation, you toss the blanket aside and slip your boots on.

The walk there is agonizing. Every step sends a dragging heaviness to the pit of your gut, amplified by a dull ache radiating down your torso. You happen to catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflective transparisteel windowpanes, darkened bags under your eyes contrasting harshly against your sickly complexion. You yank your hood over your face a little more, guarding yourself from the curiosity of others. 

“Hello, I am AZI-43521189,” The floating medical droid hovers towards you in ecstatic greeting, but your mood is not prepared to humor his bubbly attitude.

“Please, just scan me for a diagnostic.” You cut him off while making a beeline to one of the unoccupied patient benches, tolerance having been lost due to your unwell disposition.

“Very well.” He agrees to your request, his bright bulbs emitting a powerful ray in your direction. You close your eyes, letting the scanner read every inch of you, until you hear a chirp and beep of registered intel computing through AZI’s processors. “What are your symptoms exactly?”

“Aches and shivers. Cold. Sweaty. Can’t keep anything down. I just want to sleep until I am dead.” You don’t hold back in the dramatics, telling AZI how you really feel.

“Would you happen to be in a relationship?” The question is so unlike something he would ask, so you immediately get defensive.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” You bark back at him, the droid meekly shrinking at your aggressive response. 

“Uh, t’s just that, erm… there is a very rare phenomenon that takes place during the early stages of pregnancy when one’s immune system conflicts with the developing embryonic tissue, resulting in its rejection.” The way AZI explains it, you almost tune him out whilst processing the shock.

“Did… did you just say pregnancy?”

“Well, yes. I wouldn’t have asked about your relationship status for no reason. I take patient confidentiality very seriously!” His chipper voice strikes you like nails on steel plating, but you check yourself before snapping at him again, knowing he is simply programmed to be this way. “Is there someone you wish to notify? This next process is going to be difficult and there’s no shame in seeking support.”

“No!” You sharply oppose the notion. “N-no, please. Don’t tell anyone, AZI.”

“The file will be wiped from my records.” He nods encouragingly at you, floating to a nearby counter space to collect a single syringe from a row of drawers. 

“What were you saying about this process?” You venture to ask, not knowing where to go from here.

“If you like, you can wait for it to come away in its own time, or,” AZI lifts one of his mechanical arms holding the loaded syringe. “I can give you this injection and speed up the process.”

He holds an invisible clock in one hand with the syringe in the other. The pregnancy was doomed from the start according to him. There’s nothing waiting will do but make you feel worse by prolonging the inevitable.

“The shot.” You nod at him, a singular tear scaling down the crest of your cheek when you give him your answer. “I choose the shot.”

“Lie back on the bench, please.” AZI instructs you. He prepares your arm by pulling it out of the sleeve of your underclothes, exposing it in its entirety. AZI extends his retractable appendages and reaches for a small decanter of antiseptic and a sterile roll of gauze, swiping the cool astringent along your inner elbow as well as your jugular. Once he discards the gauze, he readies you for the initial injection, lining the syringe up with the most prominent vein in your arm. With a push of the plunger, the medicine is administered directly into your bloodstream. As an additional thoughtful measure, AZI gives you a healthy dose of painkillers to take the edge off, driving a second syringeful of contents into your neck.

“How long does it take before things start to happen?” You ask him as a noticeable icy sensation spread to your fingertips. 

AZI activates the motor on the hovering patient bench you’re lying on and begins to push you into a private room with your own refresher. “You should be feeling that painkiller right about now. It’s not enough to make you drowsy, but it will certainly make things easier.”

“AZI, look me in the eye and tell me any part of this is easy.” Your emotions get the better of you and you cannot bring yourself to bite your tongue.

“My apologies.” He shrinks while continuing to push, angling you right into a comfortable little corner. “Perhaps my terminology was insensitive.”

“No, I should be the one saying sorry.” You correct yourself. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not taking this very well.”

“Do you really not want me to notify anyone?” AZI asks, knowing you are in need of a special kind of support right now that he is having a hard time providing.

After a long pause to think, you reveal to him your conditions. “If it’s not too much trouble, only deliver the news that I am here, nothing about why, to Crosshair and no one else.”

“CT-9904? Why didn’t you just say so!” The familiarity when he says his designation number makes you smile. AZI really does care more than you think. Just before he zips away to notify him, you grab onto the thin structure of his robotic wrist to get his attention.

“AZI, remember what I said about not telling anyone else.” You clarify ardently.

“Affirmative!” He agrees with you, chipper as always. “No one but CT-9904 is permitted to know this information!”

“That’s right.” You confirm. “Now don’t go announcing it in front of rooms of people or near his squadmates. Tell him somewhere private. Understand?”

“You can count on me!” AZI agrees to your terms, and you loosen your grip to let him go. “I won’t let you down!”

He leaves you to accomplish this task. The painkiller is making you feel disorientated. You take the careful time to undress yourself into the set of clean clothes left on the counter by AZI while the medicine starts to make you cramp. That familiar feeling of expulsion emerges with the onset of painful spasms, and you find yourself hiding out in the sterile lavatory until the worst of it passes.

“I have returned with CT-9904!” After a period of silence, you can hear AZI’s muted voice enter the empty room on the opposite side of the lavatory door. 

“AZI, give us a minute.” Crosshair’s softened tone soothes you, but the panic of revealing the truth ignites in a spark of nerve-wracked internal combustion.

“But of course! Do notify me if you need anything!” He announces as his bubbly motors send him to the door. The hatch closes and only Crosshair remains. You let the silence hang in the air for a few beats, intimidated by its fragility.

“So, was it the flu?” He starts, knowing you would never pull him from his duties if it weren’t serious.

“Your joke.” The words you choose confuse him at first. Crosshair leans against the door to hear you better, his palm resting on the cold steel. “It’s funny because it’s true. Or, at least it was.”

“What do you mean by that?” He questions you, puzzled by your cryptic vernacular. “What was true?”

You don’t answer him, and he grows concerned, knocking a few times. It startles you and you let out an audible whimper. His blood is boiling on the other side of that door, not out of anger for you, but the need to bust in there and comfort you himself. He cannot take this barrier any longer, resorting to begging you to let him in. “Please, unlock the door. We can talk better, face to face. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

You peek down into the basin you’re sitting on, horrified by the crimson sight. The discharging sensation has died down, and you surmise that the worst of it is over. After cleaning up, you carefully retrieve a pair of sanitary undergarments to protect yourself against any additional bleeding before flushing the basin and redressing yourself. 

The door slides open. There he is, standing there leaning on its frame. His posture straightens up when he sees you, opening his arms when he notices your tear stains. Crosshair glances into the bathroom and sees the sterile wrapper of the sanitary undergarments as well as blood stained disposable towelettes peeking out from the waste bin. The look on your face spells something no other explanation would call for. He’s haunted by your bloodshot eyes and the quiver of your chin. When you attempt to prepare yourself to speak, he stops you with a gentle shush.

Crosshair holds his hand up, impeding your explanation to acknowledge the pain it would bring you. Instead, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush to his chest plate. He squeezes you with purpose, sighing deeply as you crumble in his arms. “I hurt you with my words. That was cruel of me.”

“You couldn’t have known, Crosshair. I didn’t want to humor the thought when AZI flat-out told me.” You mutter against his armor; your face slightly pressed into him. He rests his chin on your crown, petting your hair as it flows. “Besides, I think we both made it abundantly clear neither of us would have wanted this.”

“You don’t know what I want.” Crosshair challenges you, picking his chin up from your head to look down at you. “I simply never thought to consider if it was possible for clones.”

“I can imagine someone like you probably doesn’t want that.” You deliver the phrase with emphasis, referring to whatever comes with bringing a child into this world. “But it’s okay, because as it turns out, I’m the defective one this time.”

Crosshair caresses your cheek, lifting your eyes so that he can tell you this while never breaking contact. “You’re not defective. You deserve better, and I’m sorry if I made you think for even a second, I wouldn’t have wanted this with you.”

 “Do you still want that with me?” You sniffle, putting more weight into the palm that is holding your head.

“I will always want that with you, but only if you want it too.” Crosshair whispers, his breath tickling your lips before he pacifies their tingle with a kiss.

Tech

“No! No, no no, this can’t be happening!” You are the first to rise well before the sun creeps over the jungle horizon. You have been monitoring the calendar closely for the few weeks you’ve been deployed on this mission, hoping day after day for the tiniest sight of spotting when you are constantly greeted with its absence. According to your estimated calendar, you are nearing three and a half weeks late, practically a month. Your pants are soaked from the knees down by the morning dew of Drongar. You sit here in the middle of a wooded meadow, surrounded by the darkened canopy of trees. On any other day, you would rejoice in this beautiful morning, but now, all you can find the strength to do is sob in despair.

A twig snaps behind you, demanding your attention. You whip your head around, no time to dry your tears as the sight of Tech creeping up from behind a boulder interrupts your episode. “Forgive me. You weren’t at camp, and I tracked you here.”

Turning your back to him once again, he can sense you’re out of sorts. He approaches cautiously, stepping through the brush to reach you in the meadow. He takes a knee beside you, puzzled by your self-isolation. “Is something the matter?”

“Tech, if I tell you this, you have to promise me you’ll keep it to yourself.” You declare, slightly sniffling in between words.

“Everything you tell me is taken in confidence.” Tech leans a bit closer, his voice shifting to a tone of seriousness.

After a few deep breaths, you bring yourself to say it. “I’m late.”

“Late?” He asks, both eyes squinting under his golden lenses. “The day has yet to begin.”

For someone as smart as him, the nuanced urgency of this situation is lost on him. It is going to require a bit more explanation. “No… I mean, I’m late. For… you know.”

“Oh?” He utters the word with an upward inflection, proposed as an inquiry, then he reiterates, letting you know he understands. “Ohhhhhhh.”

“Shhh!” You press your index finger to his lips, curtly stopping his vocalizations short while looking over your shoulder, ensuring no one else is up yet. “Not so loud!”

“I can assure you, there is enough distance between us and the camp that nothing we have said nor will say can be detected.” Tech’s thoughtful rationalization calms your nerves, giving you something to ground yourself to. “Now, there’s only one way to be certain.”

Tech reaches into his arsenal of gadgets, retrieving his trusty bio-scanner. The beam collects data as it rolls across you from head to toe, registering the final results with a mechanical chirp resounding from the device. He adjusts his goggles, preparing himself to read off the information. “Your theory is correct. There’s no doubt about it. You’re exactly five weeks along.”

“Five?!” You cannot contain the shock of the moment, surprised that you slightly undershot your previous prediction.

“Fret not, this is good news!” Tech reaches for your hands, holding them tightly to remind you of his presence.

“What about this is good news?” You are having a hard time seeing the benefits of your predicament, pressured into perceiving yourself as a burden for everyone on this excursion.

“Look, we took no precautions, and it was no secret that this was a possibility despite our biological differences.” Tech gently brings you around, patiently sharing his words of stoic logic. “We did nothing wrong. I’m happy about this.”

“You are?” It’s so different, the reality of him finding out as opposed to what you imagine. Why did you ever think he would be mad or upset with you in any way? This is a good sign. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

“More than you are able to comprehend.” He pulls you in close, almost bumping his goggles against your forehead when he leans in to give you a loving kiss.

He pulls away, his face still hovering in front of yours as you continue speaking. “Just… still don’t tell anyone okay? It’s really early in the process still and we’re nowhere near a proper clinic. I don’t need anyone going out of their way on account of me.”

“Meaning, you wish for me to carry on as if I don’t know?” Tech requests clarification, tilting his head to the side.

“Yes. Please. Keep this between us.” You assert, his gaze frantically flickering between both your eyes.

“Done.” He supports your decision but creates a pact within himself to monitor you even closer, symbolically sealing his lips and throwing away the key. “Now, let’s get back to camp. The others are sure to start waking up soon.”

In the days following this interaction with Tech, the undertaking of strenuous symptoms becomes a battle you can no longer conceal. Lately you’ve been feeling like you’re holding the group back. Chronic levels of fatigue swamp through you and you’re attacked with muscle and joint aches that have you considering the possibilities of developing early-onset arthritis. You cannot hike through the thickly wooded mountains like you used to and regardless of how overworked you are, your appetite has all but vanished. This has made itself rather apparent in the imminent mealtimes, though, you suffer a more violent attack when Wrecker lights up a billowing campfire and perches a boar to be roasted. 

The uncontrollable salivation repulses you. You swallow repeatedly, trying to dispel the overflowing contents but the spittle is replaced as soon as you manage to gulp some down. You recognize this as an automated way for your body to prepare itself to vomit. In order to not make a scene, you get up as casually as you can and walk over to the thicket. 

You bite your tongue, assisting yourself in keeping your mouth closed until you’re a good enough distance away, but traversing the uneven ground makes you stumble slightly and you cannot help the impulse to cover your mouth with your hand, clamping even harder until you can finally spill your guts.

Once a few yards away, you quietly retch, expelling what little contents of your stomach there is left. You lean on the broad trunk of the nearest tree, holding yourself there until you are able to catch your breath. You are afforded small gusts of clean air, but they are short-lived when the direction of the wind changes, sending that horrid stench of charred meat your way.

Taking a swig of water from your canteen, you swish your mouth, discarding the wash on the forest floor before smoothing your hair and clothes, pretending everything is fine. The walk back to camp is an awkward one. You can feel all their eyes looking you up and down, saved by Tech blocking their view with his body when he offers you the one thing that you can tolerate.

“Here, I found more.” He hands you a small, folded cloth full citrus berries, their tart sweetness already soothing you by scent alone. Tech wastes no time in untying the corners of the cloth, exposing the grape-sized, bright orange fruit. You pop one into your mouth, the sweet peel serving as an appetizing barrier between the tart and juicy flesh in the center. The sourness works wonders in alleviating your upset stomach and pounding headache, but a new problem rises altogether.

“Is there something you wish to tell us?” Hunter asks, a curious brow raised at you and Tech.

“Uh, no? Why do you say that?” You feign ignorance, taking a few more orange fruits into your possession before Tech wraps them up and conceals them in an unoccupied pocket of his.

“Come on. Just because we’re clones, doesn’t mean we’ve never seen a pregnant woman before.” Crosshair interjects, shaking his head from side to side.

“Did you really think we wouldn’t notice, Tech?” Echo asks, knowing you both have been joined at the hip the whole mission.

“I was only acting according to her wishes.” Tech explains himself. “She had no desire to tell anyone yet.”

“Does this mean we get to go home?!” Wrecker shouts excitedly with a charred, meaty appendage he ripped off the fully cooked animal, evidence of him gnawing on it with visible bite marks throughout.

“Wait, you’re not mad about that?” You ask, dazed by their rather receptive reaction.

“Of course not.” Hunter scoffs amusingly, humored by your assumptions. “If anything, we’ve been hoping you’d tell us sooner.”

“But it’s because of me we won’t be able to finish our mission.” You try to reason with them, placing a predominant expectation over your obligations.

“If you’re miserable, there’s no sense in staying any longer than we have to. Besides, all we are doing is recon.” Hunter takes a step closer, plucking one of your little foraged fruits Tech collected, popping it into his mouth. It causes his face to contort slightly with the sourness as he moves it to his inner cheek with his tongue. “They could send droids out here to survey the area if they really wanted to. Command had an open slot, and we had some time to kill. There’s no shame in heading back to HQ.”

“Yeah. None of us wana be here anymore.” Crosshair tells it like it is, advancing to the boar still roasting, slicing off a little piece with his vibroblade to inspect before eating. “You’re our ticket home.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” You know they mean well, but their delivery could use some work.

“Don’t listen to them. I am glad we’re going home. It means I know you’ll be even safer.” Tech confidently intercepts your focus, laying a palm over your stomach. “Both of you.”

Echo ends his comm transmission with mission control, speaking up to notify the rest. “Medevac will be here at oh six hundred. Let’s all hunker down for one last night and be ready for extraction tomorrow.”

“Everyone, fortify your tents with extra tarps.” Hunter instructs, pointing to the darkening sky. “Looks like it’s going to rain.”

Night falls and every minute feels like an eternity. Your stomach hasn’t settled. No matter how many fruits you consume, the ache in your gut and pounding in your head only gets worse as time passes. The patter of water falling hard on the fortified dome of your temporary shelter creates an irritating racket that makes it hard for you to relax. Every few minutes, you regurgitate small portions of the fruit you manage to briefly stomach into a disposable bag clamped tightly in your hand while you writhe about in the cot. 

Your sickly complexion advertises the severity of your condition. Tech needn’t rely on any devices to tell him the obvious. You tremble and shake while he hovers over you, trying to figure out how you could have taken such a swift decline. “W-what’s happening? Why do I f-feel like I’m d-dying?”

“You’re not dying. I would never let that happen.” Tech desperately goes through his own internal checklist, ruling out various causes until he pinpoints what’s ailing you. “How could I have not thought of it before?”

“Th-thought of w-what?” You stutter through your shivers, watching as he places his helmet over his head, lowering the visor and tapping through the filtered settings while looking at you. “What are you d-doing?”

“Please, hold still.” Tech coaxes you with a hand on your knee, concentrating his sights in order to detect you through the filters. He thumbs through each until he reaches the thermal setting with an additional heart monitor. He tests it on himself, looking down to see his glowing center mass with an even brighter dot where his heart rests in his chest. Tech slowly looks you over, reading the red-hot sections of your own brain and heart, but there remains a slightly cooler void in your abdomen where a vibrant heart should be. “I knew it.”

“Tech, tell me what’s going on!” You raise your voice, incapable of handling any more mystery.

“When I scanned you before, it was to establish a baseline of your hormones.” He rips his helmet off his head, discarding it vexatiously. “I should have analyzed for a heartbeat.”

“Is there?” You ask him in desperation. “A heartbeat, I mean?”

“That is what I am currently trying to ascertain.” He applies pressure to the lower channels of your stomach while you lie there, wincing from the discomfort. “I could not detect anything through my orbital scanners, so I must rule this out using alternative means.”

“Tech! Is the baby okay!?” The current conundrum reveals the worst. His expression hardens as he is suddenly incapable of looking you in the face.

“There’s no other way to say this.” He takes in a breath, heaving it out slowly as he stops his massaging of your stomach. “It’s gone.”

“No.” You’re in denial, scooting away from him while curling your knees up to your chest. “Your readings aren’t reliable. There’s something faulty with the calibrations. I don’t know how, but you have to be wrong. You just have to be. You’re wrong… Wrong…”

“As much as I don’t want to believe it either, I have accepted reality.” Tech extends his arm towards you, hoping to hold your hand, but you deny his touch while on the cusp of a broken sob. “You must do the same if you wish to survive.”

“Is that why I feel so terrible?” You ask, looking at Tech’s warm and welcoming gloved hand.

“Yes.”

“Will I get better if it’s out?”

“It will put an end to any further harm, yes.”

“Is there a chance the problem could handle itself?”

“At this rate, there is more risk to your internal systems the longer your body struggles to expel it.” Tech presses a palm to your forehead, soaking up a couple beads of sweat with his glove before brushing his knuckles against your cheek. 

“I feel bad for wanting it out.” Your voice shakes unsteadily again, your eyes gathering moisture at the waterline.

“Don’t be.” Tech continues to pet you. “It’s already gone. Now, it’s hurting you.”

“I’m scared.” You do not hide yourself from him, knowing he is likely just as petrified.

“I know.” He peers into your eyes with immeasurable devotion. “Do you trust me?”

“Always.” You sniffle, interlocking your fingers with the hand that was once grazing your face.

“I won’t let anything happen to you.” He kisses your tears as they fall. “I promise.”

Tech makes for a sudden departure, collecting all the emergency painkiller syringes he can find to lay at your side, accompanied by a metal tin full of hand-shredded noxious leaves he collected himself after finding out its extract is a sedative in small quantities. 

“What’s that?” You ask as he removes the lid and pinches a small bit of leaves with his fingertips and lifts it towards your mouth.

“It will put you to sleep.” Tech’s transparency is a source of solace in this instance of unpredictability. “You’re not going to want to be conscious during this procedure. Open wide and chew, but do not swallow the leaves themselves, only their secretions.”

The leaves are deposited onto your tongue. They are bitter and slimy, generating a healthy amount of sap for you to ingest. It hits your stomach with a numbing warmth, like taking a double shot of firewater. The fuzziness you’re experiencing dampens the pain and your eyelids begin to droop against your will. You feel the weight of your head far too heavy to keep upright, swaying in resistance to lay back on the pillow. The leaves stain your tongue and lips black, but you do as you’re told and chew until they are a flavorless, dried-out clod.

As you chew, Tech lifts your shirt and unbuckles your pants, tugging them down a couple inches before tucking some sterile and absorbent towelettes into your waistband. It’s getting more difficult to stay awake, and Tech can see you fighting it. “You can surrender to the remedy now.” 

“I’m going to wake up again, right?” You grab hold of his hand, clenching it with forcefully, a final sobering exchange before easing into slumber.

“I’ll be the first person to greet you.” Are the last words spoken and audible before everything fades away.

“Tech?” An unexpected voice beckons his attention. He grumbles in displeasure when his presence is demanded elsewhere, though he considers they could possibly be of some assistance. “We heard some commotion. Is everything alright?”

Tech makes long strides to the entrance of his shelter door, pulling the exterior tarp back to see Echo standing beside Hunter with Wrecker and Crosshair behind them. He welcomes them into his quarters; no other methods of communication exchanged besides gasps and inquiries of shock. 

“Tech, she doesn’t look so good.” Wrecker tries to sound helpful, but Tech finds himself provoked by this announcement of the obvious.

“I know.”

“Why are her lips all discolored?” Echo points at your mouth, his brow furrowed with perplexity.

“The tannins in these leaves.”

“You shouldn’t have kept this to yourself this long.” Crosshair criticizes Tech’s choices, disappointed that he took such a risk.

“It was her decision, not mine.”

“Are you going to tell us what’s wrong with her, or are we going to have to find out for ourselves?” Hunter stops all other pressing questions, getting everyone back on track.

“Lost it…” He murmurs the words under his breath as he works to stabilize you, smearing astringent across your stomach while zoning the entire area off with paralyzing syringes. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, tirelessly preparing for the procedure while his brothers watch. “We lost the child. I’ll be damned if I lose her too.”

“Oh, Tech.” Hunter cannot even begin to comprehend the level of pain he feels, reaching to console his kin, but Tech cannot waste crucial seconds on tears. He can feel the mood in the tented shelter take a drastic turn, but you’re far too important right now. “I’m so sorry, brother.”

“There will be enough time for that later.” He reasons with Hunter, handing him an empty carton in which the decaying matter will be deposited. “Right now, I need your help.”

“Just tell us what to do.” Hunter takes the carton from him, holding it close to his chest. Wrecker, Echo and Crosshair likewise step closer, ready to tackle any role given to them.

Tech drenches Wrecker, Echo and Crosshair’s hands in cleansing astringent, preparing them to pass various tools into Tech’s possession to make the procedure progress with as little difficulty as they can, giving his own palms an additional splash as well.

Tech begins the operation by using a surgical laser to create a horizontal incision a few inches down from your belly button. Once finished, he passes the tool over to Wrecker where he handles it with care.

“Retractors.” Tech announces, blinking only once.

Echo plucks the retractors from the case of neatly organized equipment, passing a pair over to Tech while keeping a set in his own possession. 

“Together, we are going to cinch her flesh back.” Tech and Echo line up the tools at separate corners of the incision, careful not to cause additional irritation. “One. Two.”

“Three.” Echo declares in time with Tech’s sequence. They are granted a clear view into the cavity needing extraction. They both take their hands off the tools, allowing them to do their job.

“Tech, have you ever done this before?” Wrecker asks, breaking the concentrated silence.

“You shouldn’t be asking him that at a time like this.” Echo scolds Wrecker with a glare.

“I have no experience in this field of surgery like I do others.” He adds, and everyone collectively falls tense. “However, my knowledge of anatomy hasn’t failed me yet.”

“You can do this.” Hunter hands him the next tool needed in the procedure, surprising even Tech before he could request it. “We believe in you.”

Tech lets out a deep breath, giving Hunter a nod as he takes the tool from his possession. He peers down at the inflamed organ harboring the very contents causing you to hang from the pendulum of life and death. With a steady hand, Tech utilizes the razor-sharp scalpel and creates a small opening in the membrane. There he is greeted by the easily detectable and heavily blemished foreign body, blackened and foul. Tech discards the scalpel to Wrecker, urging Crosshair to pass forward the elongated forceps. He tweezes them inside, angling them in the perfect way to dislodge its connection with the exterior membrane. He scrapes along the entire organ, ensuring the contents have been loosened.

“The carton.” Tech declares and Hunter steps forward, holding it out and over your body. Tech pinches the gelatinous sack, lifting it carefully out of the incision. It’s no bigger than those citrus grapes you were stuffing your face with. It’s crazy to think this tiny little thing would have cost you your life. Tech gently lays it to rest. The nameless, soulless mass of congealed tissue lies motionless in the carton, its blood soaking into the porous receptacle.

“What do we do with it now?” Wrecker asks, feeling a bit uncouth to throw something like this in the trash.

Tech’s eyes shift, but he does not answer, cauterizing your incisions and preparing the area for an antiseptic bandage. Crosshair’s own throat tightens up when the notion that their very own niece or nephew is now being bundled up for burial. It was never awake. Only dreaming. And now it can keep dreaming for all eternity.

“We build a pyre.” Crosshair responds, filling the vocal void when Tech finds himself unable. Hunter seals the carton as Crosshair takes the bloodied tools from Wrecker’s possession, setting them in a bin with the rest to be rinsed off in a nearby freshwater creek.

“Yeah.” Echo agrees proudly, making sure to acknowledge Tech in their plans. He covers you with a warm blanket, lamenting over your stained lips and flushed features. Your shallow breaths tell him you’re stable for now.

“A proper sendoff.” Hunter adds to the sentiment and the somber mood shifts to one of hope and love as they all split up after cleaning the mess made, bandaging you securely. Each forage for small logs, bunches of flowers and smooth stones to surround it. The logs are stacked in a fortified sequence, creating a structure no larger than a square foot off the ground. It is enclosed by the stones with delicate stems flourished with vibrant petals throughout. 

Hunter hands Tech the carton and he places it atop the structure. Another morning on this planet, but somehow, the sky looks a bit brighter after the rain. They all watch a Republic LAAT come in for a landing, its drive cones blasting the foliage around wildly. The disruption of rumbling engines wakes you up, your eyes blinking open to get a read of your surroundings. You groan when you try to pick your head up, finding a dull ache spread when you engage your core. Wrecker’s eyes brighten with astonishment, sprinting to find the one person you were expecting. “Tech! She’s awake!”

He rushes into the tented area, damp from the rainfall still soaking the trees from the night before. You’re already crying, whimpering helplessly before he can even get to you. “You lied…”

“Who’s lying?” Tech pushes you back to lay against the cot, keeping you from moving too much. “Surely it’s not me.”

“You weren’t the first person to greet me.” The answer makes him smile when he realizes your spirit hasn’t been broken after all.

“That hardly counts.” Tech disputes with you leniently, pressing his forehead to yours. “That was more of a notifying holler than a greeting.”

“Always reading between the lines, aren’t you?” You drag your fingers along his chin, catching the rough stubble on the pad of your digits. His eyes are dark. He’s lost so much sleep, no doubt been awake all night. His smile falls and his eyes turn glossy. He blinks the oncoming tears away, squinting beneath his goggles. You hold each other for a moment, breathing new life into each other after something so unfortunate. Tech kisses you, guiding your mouth to his with a set of knuckles under your chin. He breaks the kiss to wrap his arms around you in a meaningful hug with a thoughtful cradle of your head. 

“You saved me.” The words you chose break him to pieces, forcing him to lift his lenses and wipe away the gathered moisture.

“You could say it was for selfish reasons.” He says through clogged sinuses and bated breaths. “Such is love.”

“Hey, uh,” Echo peeks into the area from beyond the damp tarps. “Everything’s ready.”

Tech gives him a nod, raising his hand in a gesture of acceptance, encouraging Echo to enter with Kix and Tup as both are prepared with a stretcher. They all shift your weight from the cot and onto the stretcher.

“Good to see ya.” Kix gives you an encouraging smile, leveling you on the stretcher with Tup’s help. “Sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances.”

“We’ll get you all taken care of when we make it back, alright?” Tup adds, hoisting you up with Kix assisting his efforts. Tech stands right by your side, following them out until he makes them both stop just outside the tent.

“Wait, just one moment.” Tech stalls them, handing you a flint striker. You’re not sure what you’re meant to do with this, until you spot it. The pyre.

It’s a quaint little thing, resting on the ground a couple feet away from you. You are granted the honor of setting it alight. Everyone waits for you to engage the striker, depositing a cascade of glittering sparks over the pyre. Black smoke billows over the bright orange flames, isolated to that one tiny spot. Tech nods to himself, petting you on the head as if to find solace in this method of closure. The essence of this child is emitted through the glowing embers taken to the heavens. You are at last carried aboard where you ascend to the starship floating in orbit, watching that fine line of smoke until you can’t make it out anymore.

••••••••••••••••••••

The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”

Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”

You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.

“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”

Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”

You smile. “Armor for the skin.”

As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”

“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”

Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.

The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”

Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”

Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”

“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.

Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”

“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.

Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”

You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”

You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.

Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”

“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”

Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”

Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”

The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.

As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”

“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”

He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”

Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.

⸻

An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.

Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”

“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.

Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”

“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”

Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”

You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”

Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”

Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”

Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”

Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”

Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”

You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.

Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

⸻

The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…

Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.

“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”

You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”

Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.

You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.

Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”

Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.

Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.

Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.

Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”

Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.

Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.

The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.

Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”

Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”

Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”

A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”

You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.

⸻

Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.

“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”

Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”

Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”

Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.

Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”

You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.

Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”

⸻

Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”

Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”

Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”

Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.

“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”

You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.

⸻

A/N