fingerprints on all the memories â Fi/Darman â E
For @lyntergalactic via @smut-wars-exchange !
Post war, past etain/darman, canon disabled character
Read on ao3
Summary/preview:
They wake up half an hour later to delighted screaming and thudding running footsteps down the hall. Fi gets a front row seat to Darman cursing Atin to within an inch of his life whilst getting stuck in every single item of clothing he picks up. Something crashes in the distance.
Fi laughs into his pillow long after Dar is out the door and gone.
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Die Frauenquote - vorher war Zucker, jetzt gibts Peitsche. Und danach?
Und wie es natĂźrlich immer ist, gibt es Leute, die den Weg bis zur Frauenquote nie angeschaut haben, nun aber hellhĂśrig werden, wenn das Wort den Medien zu finden ist.
Meme â WTF the planets are doing now ?
Dann! âŚaber dann! ⌠wird dagegen gehalten, was das Zeug hält.
Die beste Argumentation gegen die Frauenquote ist: âdie Frauen in meinem Umfeld lehnen die Frauenquote ab, weil es ihnen eherâŚ
20. âYou need to wake up because I canât do this without you.â
CW: blood and injury, past canon events (injury, general harrowing-ness), imagined character death
Thereâs a lot of it, everywhere, dark and sticky and covering Darmanâs gauntlets. Heâs red up to his elbows, which he shouldnât be able to see on black.
The rubble is red. Their armour is red. The whole damn planet is red.
First itâs Qiilura, and Niner is screaming, and Atin is dying; then itâs CoruscantâEtain, bloodied on the safe house carpet, Sarge, shot down in a dingy, good for nothing warehouse; and now itâs Gaftikar again, inside that Force-forsaken broadcast studio. Or outsideâinsideâunderâon top of?
But Fi is lying in the rubble again. This time he doesnât have his katarn, and Darman knows all of the blood is his. A big pool of it, spreading on the floor. A lake as far as he can see. All of Fiâs limbs are red and Darman doesnât know whatâs not hurt.
Fi bats his hands away but doesnât stay conscious, not even long enough to get up. Dar is shouting, and Atin is trapped, and Niner is gone.
Darman wakes up with a choked gasp and nearly concusses himself on the bunk above.
âFuck,â he breathes. Chokes. Probably cries. His face is wet. Thank goodness thereâs no one else in hereâheâs sure he was shouting in his sleep. His heart rate is slowly coming down as he breathes, in, out, in, outâŚ
In. Out.
When they get enough racks to be picky, Niner and Atin always take the top two. Fi usually takes the lower left, so Dar takes the right. Theyâll end up in the same bunk anyway at some point, if they can, but now that lower left spot has Corr sleeping in it and Dar canât make himself look for too long.
Itâs becoming a prayer, these words he comes back to whenever his thoughts stray. To himself, to the Force, to Fi. Whomever will listen.
Wake up, he thinks. You have to wake up. Theyâll fix you, the Jedi will fix you and then youâll wake up.
Wake up, he thinks, because I canât keep going if you donât.
Fi grins and swallows before he opens his mouth to say something else. The divot behind the corner of his jaw shallows and deepens with every movement, draws attention to itself, invites him; Fiâs skin looks so soft and smooth, and Darman doesnât know when he started thinking like this.
âThereâs no way itâs that easy,â Fi is saying. He looks over at Dar, lifting his eyes from his datapad, and Dar smiles at him and raises a brow. âLookâcome on, Iâve seen you burn caff.â
âAccidentally,â Darman says. But he doesnât really care about that. Fiâs eyes sparkle with his mischief and his eyelashes areâlong. Darman bets that he could kiss all the way down his throat and heâd taste sweet.
But some unvoiced thought makes Fiâs lips twitch and then he looks back down at the cooking program theyâre watching. He shifts his hips, sprawling even more across Darmanâs bunk, and they might both be in their blacks but the heat of his thigh pressed to Darâs is a constant burning point of contact.
He doesnâtâitâs not. These are all things he sometimes thinks about⌠but itâs. Different.
The point is, Darman knows what heâs thinking. These are not unfamiliar thoughts. Itâs just⌠that theyâve never been about a squadmate, before. Theyâve never been about Fi.
Back on Coruscant, Darman had heard Atinâs voice in the âfresher just a moment before one belonging unmistakably to Delta Squadâs Sev. He hadnât thought much of it at the time; as long as the two werenât trying to off each other, it wasnât his business. And besides, heâd been preoccupied. Heâd had his own intimate encounters in that âfresher, so who was he to say anything?
But now his thoughts have halted and tumbled over each other just because of one stray curl of hair behind Fiâs ear (his pierced side, the ear Mereel had cradled and punctured and âkissed betterâ afterwards because he likes a lark) and all Darman can wonder is what it was like. What would it be like if heâ
âDar?â Fi asks, and Darman had barely noticed him pausing the holofeed.
âIâm here,â Dar says. He breathes and he meets Fiâs questioning look and he doesnât read into the light flush of his cheeks and he makes himself think about nerf, and salad, and tubers, and whatever-may-you that famous holonet chefs like to adulterate with too many preparation steps.
But what if it hadnât just been Etain he was sneaking off with back on Triple Zero?
When Fi wanders into the shipâs bunk room, heâs looking for Dar. Niner is liaising with their Adviser in the hold and Atin is messing with instruments in the cockpit.
Fi, bored of his music and his holos and the newsreels that tell him nothing, is restless.
Darmanâs is the lower right bunk. Heâs sitting on it, legs kicked out when Fi finds him. His bucket is on top of his adjacent kit locker and he has a creased, worn-to-ruin flimsi holo held preciously between his hands.
Nobody has to ask to know whatâs on it. Just the thought of it makes Fiâs heart ache behind his ribs. Makes him feel sick to his stomach.
Darman is so⌠true. Honest. Loyal. Trustworthy.
Heâs capable to a fault, patient with brothers, possibly too forgiving of some things even if he rides hard on others.
Fi knows he admires that as much as he admires Ninerâs brutal pragmatism and Atinâs unwavering hold on his focus. He admires Darmanâs smile, the way it dimples more than his own and slants just a few degrees differently to... well. He canât help but compare his new squad to his old, but that path leads nowhere but despair and sombre moods.
Sometimes Fi feels like all he has is his good cheer and his medkit, but more often than not these days he feels like heâs left only just clinging to his kit by his fingertips.
âTwo hours to infil,â he says, taking the bare few steps needed to cross the room and lower himself onto Atinâs bunk, opposite Darman. He puts his helmet on the floor with a quiet clink.
Dar glances up with a quick grin. âYou gonna get some shut eye?â
Fi tries to smile. âMight as well, unless thereâs anything more interesting to do.â
Shrugging, Darman folds his flimsi and runs absent fingers along its frayed creases. He stares off into the distance instead, now, one boot tip swaying as his outstretched leg leans this way and that.
âDo you love her?â Fi asks eventually. The words fall from his lips as if said by someone else, drawn on a breath that hurts to leave his lungs. Do you love her, he asks, because heâs not sure if hearing the answer to anything else would be more or less painful.
âYeah,â Dar says. He smiles a little dreamily, that uptick in the left-hand corner of his lips almost hidden from Fiâs view of his profile. âI do.â
Fi nods. He turns on Atinâs bunk and kicks up his feet, lying flat on his back. The familiar sight of the underside of Ninerâs bunk above doesnât lessen the burning sensation in the back of his throatâthe one his quiet resignation says is far too much of an overreactionâbut it does give him something to focus on that isnât his thoughts.
No more seems to be forthcoming from Dar, so, eventually, Fi turns towards the wall and closes his eyes.
Having expected anything more was blind childishness.
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