#ouch.txt

“This is ridiculous.”

Eyes lifting from your datapad, you meet the glare aimed at you head-on. It seemed like a lifetime ago that you would have been reduced to a flustered, anxious wreck by that look. But now you could look the man behind the glower in the eye. His deep brown and silver eyed gaze boring holes into your head with equal amounts of fury, and barely batted an eye.

“Yes. You’re right - it is.” Tapping your stylus on the edge of your datapad, you stood, turning to the supply drawers and rummaging through them. “Which is why I’m putting you on medical leave, effective immediately.”

“The hells you are!” 

Before he can so much as push off the bed you're on him, your hands closed around his wrists and pinning his hands to the bed where they gripped the edge. You could feel the strength of his hands, under the weathered skin. Part of you wondered if he wasn’t imagining wrapping those hands around your throat.

Part of you thought you wouldn’t mind if he tried, under more favorable circumstances.

Which made you realize, not for the first time, that this was a huge mess of your own making. And you weren’t sure how you were going to fix it. Or if you could fix it. Because catching feelings when you’re taking part in the Rebellion is ill-advised at bet. But your arrogance that your attraction to the former commander of the 104th Battalion of the GAR wouldn’t run unchecked was the biggest mistake of your thirty-some odd years.

Namely because Wolffe is one of the meanest men you’ve ever met in your life, and his favorite pastime is trying to get a rise out of you.

“Didn’t know you even gave a shit.”

“Don’t start,” you sighed, suppressing the urge to duck your head when you felt heat creeping up from your collarbone to your scalp. Pushing away from the bed, you gestured at his leg, turning before he can see the nerves written on your face. “Your fucking leg’s busted, you nearly bled out on the evac back to base, and you might’ve cracked your prosthetic. Little gods Wolffe, what did you think was going to happen?” While you began to rummage through the drawers at last for the flimsi forms, you huffed, “Bacta patches and painkillers aren’t going to fix this overnight.”

“It’s just a sprain. And my eye is fine.”

Pressing the heels of your hands to the sides of your head, you turned so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Not that it mattered to you at the moment. You glared at Wolffe . It was the first time you’d ever looked at him like that, with quite so much…venom. Fingers shaking with anger that is almost blinding, you reopened the attachment on your datapad you’d been sent earlier that morning.

“Look,” you seethed, “look, Wolffe.” He barely glanced at it before shoving it back towards you. “No,” you insisted, shoving it in his face. “Look. At. The. X-ray.” Dropping it on his lap when he refused to take it, you stomped over to stand at the foot of his bed so you were in his line of sight. Illustrating with your arms the angle his heg had been bent at before triage got it reset. “Legs are not meant to bend like this!”

“So? Put it in a cast and send me on my way.” He turned his head from you, arms folded across his chest. “I can still fight.”

“You lost nearly two gallons of blood, Wolffe.” You moved to the side of the bed he was pointedly looking at to avoid looking at you. “Look,” shoving up the sleeve of your jacket, you pointed at the bacta patch in the crook of your arm, “I gave you some of my blood, just to make sure you’d make it through the fucking night!” Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you began to pace. “Maker’s left nut, if you can’t take your health seriously, I’m going to need to set you up for a psych eval before we even consider discharging you.”

“That your professional opinion, Doc?”

Ouch. That one stung.

When you joined the Rebellion in your youth a decade ago, you were a fresh college dropout with less than a month until you could have graduated. Until you should have graduated. But the Empire had deemed your entire university as a waste of resources and space, so at least you weren’t the only one. Small comfort though it was.

But when you’d finally decided to do something rather than seething in silence at the Empire, you hadn’t expected the Rebellion to give you the position you currently held. Though you weren’t the only one in this boat - apparently the higher-ups thought ‘degree in blank medical field’ meant you could perform basic first aid. This had more to do with a ‘it’s the effort that counts’ mentality, because the higher-ups were nothing if not smart.

No one would have survived in the Rebellion this long were it not for that.

So the whole ‘Doc’ being your base nickname wasn’t your favorite thing to have happened. Worse things could happen, honestly. And they apparently had, and would continue to.

Case in point - Wolffe.

“More like basic observation and common sense.” You shot him a look over your shoulder. “Two things you clearly lack.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“What the hells does that - no. No, y’know what?” 

Attaching the forms to a datapad clip, you shoved both into his hands, turned on your heel, and left. Your shift had ended fifteen minutes ago anyway, and you didn’t bother explaining that to your colleague on the way out.

Let Wolffe catch them up to speed. You needed a nap - or a drink. The order didn’t matter, so long as it alleviated the headache that always built when you spent extended periods of time around Wolffe.

You knew from personal experience that neither one usually works.

---

Year Ten, Day 182 after joining the Rebellion

Has someone been leaking these logs?! I know I’m not the best at encryption and coding, but I know for a fact this datapad never leaves my side. So either someone’s gotten into my shit while I’m asleep, or this whole fucking base is consipring against me. I’ve been assigned Wolffe’s recovery-plan case until further notice. Further notice being when we finally fucking kill each other.

“You expect me to do what now?”

“Look, it’s not the end of the world. I know you two don’t really see eye to eye --” Your supervisor pointedly ignored the snickering from your fellow medics, just long enough to roll her eyes. “But,” her sharp voice silenced the gossipers before they got really started, “you’re the only one Wolffe hasn’t…how do I put this….”

“Made you cry?”

“Treated like shit?”

“Threatened to mutilate?”

“How do all of you know he hasn’t done these things to me?” Silence yet again, punctuated by the occasional quiet, immature laughter. You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I can’t possibly watch him at all hours of the day. I’ll need some help to see other patients--”

“We’ll put someone on night watch, rest assured. But your appointments - barring some sort of emergency - have all been reassigned. And before you refuse -“ your supe held up a finger when you were gearing up to do just that, “- command has said they’ll be glad to send you to Hoth. A new position has opened up—“

“No thanks.” Gritting your teeth, you accepted the data pad handed off to you by her assistant. Staring at the screen but not actually reading it, you sighed, muttering under your breath, “I’ll expect you lot to pitch in for our funeral services.”

“C’mon, Doc.” The colleague you’d handed Wolffe off to that first day gently tapped your arm with the back of their hand. You tried not to rankle as you turned to Limla, who’d been sympathetic to the issue you had with Wolffe from the get-go. “It won’t be bad. You can always decompress in my quarters.” They grinned broadly, all teeth and glittering black eyes, “Gods know I love hearing you rant about the old geezer.”

“Swear,” you groaned, “you lot just live for this shit, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Signal’s crap on base, so I can’t watch anything good on the HoloNet.”

“Oh, these two are way more interesting than any of your bullshit HoloDramas.”

“Children.” After inputting your signature into the datapad, you stood, bracing yourself for what was going to be a very very long couple of months. “I’m working with a bunch of children.”

---

Day Three of Wolffe Observation

I’m going to lose my mind. Or maybe I already have. Really I only have to be there - as in physically - for seven hours out of the day, then I can try to pick up rotations from someone else. Scanners and meds will do all the hard work for me. Really I’m just there to make sure Wolffe doesn’t try to jump out of bed. Which he’s already done - multiple times. But every time - every. fucking. time. - Wolffe finds something else to give me shit about. It’s no different than all the other times he’s shown up. But today - oooh, today. Today I nearly reached my breaking point, and I know the bastard could see it. But gods, I would sooner pull a breaching newborn Bantha calf with my bare hands (again) from its screaming Bantha mother before I give Wolffe the satisfaction. I will not be the first one to break.

The day really had started off well.

Sure, you woke up knowing you had to endure Wolffe’s company for another shift. And of course, anyone who knew anything about the dynamic between the two of you gave you shit about it. This seemed to be everyone’s new favorite daily pastime. And really, you didn’t care - maybe they knew about the stupid crush, maybe they didn’t. You were just here to do your job. To help further the effort to take out the Empire.

Too bad Wolffe’s favorite pastime was trying to make your job difficult. You could see it building in his eyes the second you walked in, his gaze focused on your thermos. Folding his arms across his chest, he huffs,

“Where’s my caf?”

“Fine morning to you, too.” You gave him a deadpan stare before you began checking his vitals. “And you’ll get your damn caf when you’re out of that bed.”

“In that case --”

“Stop.” 

You’d kept yourself close to the bed, close enough that you didn’t even have to look up from your datapad to plant your palm on his chest and hold him there. This was surprisingly difficult, and even with the bloodloss and the fractured leg, you think he could have thrown you like a ragdoll if he really wanted to.

Huh. That’s an interesting mental image.

“Sit,” you gave him a hard shove, “down.” 

Wolffe’s eyes crackled with fury for a few seconds before he pushed back, and you wondered if he was going to start something. It wasn't the first time he’d gotten that fed up with having to follow someone else’s orders. But the fire cooled some, still burning in his mismatched gaze. You felt your pulse skyrocket, and took a step back. Or you tried to.

The moment he felt you try to take your hand off of him, Wolffe’s fingers closed around your wrist, holding you there.

“Poor Doc,” he sneered, nothing but mockery in his tone as his thumb stroked across your pulse. You thought it might have been absent-minded on his part but you couldn’t be sure. It would be just your luck if he was trying to see what unsettles you. “You lose a bet and get stuck watching me another day?”

“No,” you answerdc, twisting your hand away, and Wolffe smirked. Panic flared through you when you heard your own words - you sounded like a petulant teenager, trying to deflect blame or deny...something. Time to do damage control.  “I don’t have any choice in being here today. There are a hundred other things I could be doing, but,” you gestured at him on the bed, “somebody’s sense of self preservation in this room is sorely lacking.” 

He shut down after that, like you were expecting him to, but something seemed different. Or maybe you’re just noticing something for the first time. 

Who knows. Who cares? You certainly don’t. You really don’t, especially not when you saw what you thought might be hurt in his expression before he buried it under a thunderous scowl.

And so it went. Wolffe barely spoke to you through the rest of your shift. That suited you just fine. Except something felt off. You couldn’t shake it. There was something about what you saw - what you think you saw - that made your stomach tie itself in never ending knots the entire time. But you couldn’t bring yourself to analyze it, because this was Wolffe. 

Wolffe, who only cares about his brother, fighting the good fight in this Rebellion, and not at all what the rest of the base thinks about him.

Certainly not about your opinion of him. You’d given up on that pipe dream only a week after he’d been stationed at this base. When he’d made it abundantly clear that you didn’t fit the bill of a medic that should be caring for him. And you were over that - really. It was just the amount of times you’d been assigned to check him over and patch him up that made this crush persist. 

So it could only be that making you worry that you’d struck a nerve. An old wound that refused to heal.

An alarm pinged on your datapad, drawing your attention to it. You frowned as you read and reread the words on the screen in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Wolffe glance your way, but you didn’t look over. When you finally turned to him, he lay back in the bed, and for a moment you were taken aback by the sight in front of you.

Wolffe is a good-looking man, even in his advanced age. It’s something he carried well, and obviously. Not so much arrogance as it was confidence, awareness that yes, he does know he’s handsome despite what the war and rapid aging had done to his body. You’ve seen it. How could you not? Even when resting it showed, and you --

You took a moment to admire.

It was rare that you got to just look at him like this. Usually you have to do this at a distance, out of fear he’d figure you out somehow. So you drank it all in: the smooth line of his jaw, how proud his profile is, the graying of his dark hair around his temples. The lines on his forehead and under his eyes are pronounced from years of glaring, which is kind of funny to think about. It’s also a little sad. At first you weren’t a fan of the mustache, but it’s grown on you. Your eyes are slowly trailing down his torso, the healthy amount of give you can see on his stomach and chest, when he shifts with an uncomfortable groan.

In an instant, your professional walls were back up, and you were on your feet and at his side in record time.

“What’s wrong?”

“Stop hovering,” he tried to shoo you away, but you immediately spotted the tremor in his hands when he waved one at you. Fisting the thin sheets over him, Wolffe twisted uncomfortably. “Just - dammit, why didn’t you bring me any fucking caf?!” His cybernetic eye was squeezed shut when he glared at you, and you didn’t know how you failed to notice the sweat beading on his skin. “Wouldn’t have this blasted headache if you’d just brought me some.”

“Wolffe,” you said slowly, reaching out to him. You decided he let you place a hand on his forehead - or else the fever you can feel was making him delirious. So that’s what the datapad had picked up. You hadn’t believed it at first - the reading of his temperature was far too low. “What did you do?”

“Nothin’.”

“Wolffe,” you dragged your hand down to the side of his neck, trying to bite back your hiss of alarm. He was burning under your palm. “I need you to tell me what you did. If you’re messing with this equipment, we’ll both be in it deep. It could get other people hurt.”

He growled rough in the back of his throat, “Osik - fine.” Batting your hand away, he gestured at the holoscreen that had been tracking his vitals from day one. You squinted at it, bringing it down on the articulated neck as you tapped at the screen. “I might’ve reprogrammed it a little. Damn thing kept blaring all night - your replacement was too busy flirting with the nurse to do anything about it.” Your hands tightened on the screen as you furiously tapped open the troubleshooter - you were going to have Vrakka’s head for his negligence. “S’fine, Doc, I’ll be --”

“It is not fine,” you snapped, wheeling around to stare him down. “Do you realize what else could have gone wrong? You could have died and we wouldn’t have known what the hell happened --”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient?” Wolffe huffed, not having the strength to raise his voice apparently but the ability to throw another barb at you. “Thought you’d be happier at the prospect.”

For what seems like a lifetime, you just stared at him. Left reeling from the words he’d just flung at you, reeling from the thought that he thought you’d be glad he was dead. It took you until then to realize that’s exactly how you’d been acting. The way you kept trying to rush through getting him fixed up, the clipped words, the reprimands. How you always tried to avoid him outside of the medcenter, and when you did run into him, you always made excuses to get away from him.

Gods, you really shit the bed with this one, huh?

…also why were your eyes burning?

“Mesh’la?” The word didn’t mean anything to you, but it pulled you right back into the moment. Something about the way he said it. You blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. His eye widened slightly, a moment of clarity as he shuffled in the bed so he was facing you. He can see it. “Are you --”

“Vrakka!” Your shout cracked viciously in the relative quiet of the medcenter, and you stormed out of the room after seeing him try to rush past the doorway. By the time you caught up with him, you were out of breath, and when you grabbed his sleeve you felt him wince. “Vrakka, what the hell were you thinking?!”

“I-I’m sorry Doc, he’s just an asshole and I didn’t --”

“So you abandoned your post to try and get your dick wet?! You left a patient alone in his room long enough to give him the opportunity to hack the vitals tracker?!” Dragging him back into Wolffe’s room, you jabbed a finger at the readout datapad. You hissed between grit teeth, “Fix. This. And make sure no one has the clearances to tamper with it again.” 

Shaking your head while turning your back to the bed (and Wolffe), you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand. You could feel Wolffe’s eyes on your back. This was - it was such a goddamn mess. You’d let your feelings get the better of you in regards to him. If you had only been more professional from the get go, if you’d only been nicer to him --

But it’s useless to stay in the past. You knew that.

“I’ll get you on some antibiotics.” You looked at him over your shoulder, trying to keep your expression neutral. “But you have to tell us if something feels even a little bit wrong. I don’t care what you think you know about me, but you are my patient.” Arms folded across your chest when you faced him, you set your chin again, “And nobody is dying on my watch.”

You didn’t let him get another word in before you marched out of the room. Limle would hopefully still be up, and even if they weren’t, they had a bottle of whiskey with your name in it.

---

Day Twenty of Wolf(fe) Watching

So things are….different. Have been since Wolffe clued me in that he could remotely hack the damn medscanner’s readouts. It’s quieter now, and I don’t know if I love it or hate it. I’m leaning more towards the latter - I think I almost miss squabbling with him. It’s nice not to have the anxiety of wondering when he’s going to say something shitty. …well alright, he still says shitty things, but he’s not going for the jugular anymore. With me at least.

Well. One thing could be said about your shifts watching Wolffe.

It gave you plenty of time to catch up on paperwork. In fact, you were way ahead on your paperwork. To the point that you didn’t have anything to do besides read.

And, on rare occasions, talk with Wolffe. Which was becoming more frequent as you ran out of books to read.

Instead of working a dayshift on that day, you ended up switching with Vrakka’s ‘friend,’ Yol - how Vrakka landed a date with him, you’d never know. He was booksmart where Vrakka was streetsmart. Yol probably got through to Vrakka about his fuck up more than you did, his own sense of responsibility something he couldn’t just ignore at the drop of a hat. Definitely seemed to be a case of opposites attracting. He’d been reluctant to take the shift until you told him it would open up a night off with Vrakka. After blustering his way through a flimsy denial, he’d accepted, before excusing himself to go blush somewhere else.

Cute. It was cute.

What wasn’t cute was hearing raised voices from the end of the hallway on your way to the medcenter. Hastening your step, you rushed to the doors, your jaw nearly unhinging when you took in the scene in front of you.

You’d come to expect anything, honestly. Especially after hearing about the Death Star being blown to pieces. But this was surprising, alarming, concerning. Wolffe was up and out of bed, half leaning and pushing on the edge of it as he tried to get in Yol’s space. This was a far cry from the way he’d looked a few weeks ago, and is an abrupt reminder of why you’ve come to admire him so much. In Wolffe is a wildfire that answers to no one, not even nature itself when there’s nothing left to burn.

And you got to witness the Commander return to his old ways, which will no doubt leave scars in his wake.

“Of all the bullshit you lot have subjected me to, I have never been treated so unprofessionally. D’you treat all of your patients like this?!”

“I-I, no, no I don’t — please sir, you need to calm down -”

“Calm down? You’re gonna tell me to calm down, after nearly dumping me outta bed just to change the bloody sheets?! Now I’m up, against Doc’s orders, and you’re going to tell me to - oh.” Wolffe glanced away from you almost as soon as his gaze flicked over to you leaning against the doorway. “Hey, Doc. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, well, I heard you. Whole base did.” You lifted an eyebrow at Yol. “Could changing his sheets not wait until I got here?”

“Supe came by saying the laundry needed to be sent on the hour.”

“Well, it’s thirty minutes til, so - oh. Oh, I see.” Giving Yol a knowing look that makes him squirm, you turned to Wolffe, nodding towards the chairs lining the wall. “Here,” you offered him your shoulders, sliding your arm around his back. Wolffe hesitated for a moment before he leaned into you. You barely managed to suppress a shiver when you felt his fingers digging slightly into the small of your back. It was probably just the easiest place for him to put his hand, you reasoned. As you gently guided him to one of the chairs, you dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “He’s got a date.”

“So that gives him a free pass to manhandle me?” Wolffe sniffed imperiously, arms folded across his chest once he settled into the chair. You gently lifted his leg to prop it on the hover chair Yol pushed your way, rolling your eyes at the man’s unimpressed glower. “And that’s also why you’re stuck pulling the all-nighter?”

“Yup.” Propping your hip against the wall, you watched Yol while he ripped the fitted sheet off the bed. “To both.”

“You’re a paragon of patient care, Doc.” 

Anyone within earshot can hear the roll of Wolffe’s eyes in his voice, and you couldn’t help yourself. Hiding it behind your hand didn’t do much to muffle your laughter. It was proven to be absolutely pointless when you glanced over to see the glare Wolffe aimed your way.

“Okay, alright uh,” Yol bustled past the two of you to shove the old bedding into the chute in the wall. “Thanks Doc, I’ll see you--”

“Aren’t we forgetting someone?” 

You lifted your eyebrows at Yol when he froze halfway through the door, his eyes frantically searching the room before they landed on Wolffe. There was a moment where he almost seemed like he was going to just leave you to deal with him by yourself. You’re almost certain he’d made his mind up before he rushed past you, hauling Wolffe up and out of the chair.

“You sure drive a hard bargain, Doc,” Yol grumbled unhappily as you took up Wolffe’s other side. The two of you carefully returned the equally unhappy older man into the bed, who huffed and puffed and growled throughout the whole affair. Once he’d settled in, Yol turns to you, hands outspread in supplication, “Now can I go?”

“‘Course,” you chirped, booting up your datapad as you gave him a sidelong glance. “Say hi to Vrakka for me.”

“OkaybyeDoc.”

Wolffe only waited until Yol was out of the room before he scoffed, “That irresponsible boy?”

“Eh,” you shrugged, pulling up a chair to stretch your legs out in front of you. “There’s somebody for everybody.”

“Oh, and you’re what, some kind of relationship expert?” Lifting your eyes to him, you blinked in confusion.

“That’s what I went to school for.”

“...what?”

“Oh, I assumed - wait, why do you call me Doc? I thought you were in on the joke?”

“Joke? What joke?” Wolffe glanced around the room in bewilderment. “You work in the medcenter, why would calling you ‘Doc’ be a joke?!”

“It’s because I’m not a medical professional. I’m just - provisional.” You shrugged when the confusion in his expression only increased. “Why do you think it was so easy for them to put me on rotations to keep an eye on you? I’m not exactly experienced in actual medical practice - just basic first-aid.” Sniffing imperiously, you returned your attention to your datapad. “Though with your help, I’m beginning to learn more advanced practices.”

“Glad to be of service,” Wolffe chuckled, and the room went silent for a while as you went through your inbox. It was a useless effort - no one had requested an appointment with you in a week. Suppressing a frustrated sigh, you decided to go through your personal library when Wolffe cleared his throat. “Does it bother you?”

“Hm?” Lifting your eyebrows, you stared at him blankly for a moment. Wolffe gave you an exasperated look after a few beats and you perked up. “Oh. Oh! I mean, a little bit? Not anymore really. Limle is the only person who means it in a ‘term of endearment’ sort of way.”

“So they all just call you that - and they don’t bother asking if that’s what you want?” Wolffe seemed angrier than he was at Yol before, and you tilted your head at him. He huffed, arms crossed over his broad chest, “Just don’t see how anyone could take that kind of treatment lying down.”

“I’m not exactly the kind of person to rock the boat just to save face,” you admitted.

“I noticed.” That was - surprising. It must have shown  in your expression, because Wolffe elaborated, “You said it yourself: you don’t have a choice in being here, even if you can’t stand being around me. Who would put up with that if they weren’t a pushover?”

“Oh, so you’ve got me all figured out, hm?”

“No.” Wolffe studied you closely, and you felt your stomach do a funny little flip. No one had ever looked at you like that. It was something you couldn’t put your finger on, which was exciting and terrifying in its own right. “Not yet, at least.”

“Oh.” You honestly didn’t know what else to say to that, so for the rest of your shift, the two of you sat in almost complete silence.

---

Day Forty-Six of Wolffe-Sitting

Yol and Vrakka are finally a thing. Openly, at any rate. Which is honestly a huge fucking relief. Watching those two dance around each other (mostly on Yol’s part) was enough to make me age two years every time they tried to deny it all. Wolffe and I made a bet that they would get caught before they were open about it. I lost, and today he finally decided to make me pay up. This man is out to get me, I swear.

“I’m telling you,” you sighed miserably, “you might as well try to reverse gravity with your mind. And last I checked, no one in this room is Force sensitive.”

Wolffe waved you off before he went back to shuffling the deck, “Anyone can learn to play Sabacc, and you lost, fair and square.” He smirked at you - actually smirked, which was a rare sight in itself. It was also distracting. “Better get used to that, mesh’la.”

“What does that mean anyway? ‘Mez-luh.’” You squinted at him when he chuckled at your attempt at pronunciation. “Is it an insult or something?”

“Depends on what you’d find insulting,” he said with a shrug, chuckling at your frustrated expression. He considered you for a moment, eyes narrowed while the cards smacking together became the only sound filling the silence. “If you can beat me five times after I finish teaching you the basics, I might consider telling you.”

“Stubborn old man.”

“Stubborn old man who’s going to wipe the floor with you by the time your shift is up.” The way he grinned at you is infectious. It was also terrifying - all teeth and glowing confidence. “Now pay attention,” he tapped the deck twice with his knuckles, “because I don’t like to repeat myself.”

“Wait,” you looked at him, head tilted to one side, “what do you get if you win?”

“The satisfaction of putting you in your place.” 

…oh. Oh your mind went to some terrible places with that statement. And he did absolutely nothing to clarify, despite your obvious discomfort.

This was going to be a long shift.

* * *

“I’ve changed my mind.”

It took you a while to look up at him. After the last actual game, you sat with your elbows propped on your thighs, fingers rubbing circles in your throbbing temples while you stared at the floor. Just when you thought you understood the rules, Wolffe would you. Easily. When you looked at him, it was to glare at him, the smug smirk that he wasn’t even bothering to hide.

“How so?” you asked, shoving your last hand at him so he could shuffle again. 

For a moment you found yourself lost in watching his hands, the ease with which he went through the motions. It was practiced, automatic - you are enraptured by it. His amused chuckle pulled you out of your stupor.

“You need a little incentive,” he announced, “and I need things to be a little more interesting. Otherwise I’m going to fall asleep by the next hand.”

“Sorry I’m not great at a game I’ve never played until today,” you huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “And what do you mean by ‘incentive?’ You being able to rub it in my face seems like enough.”

“Apparently not.” He knocked on the deck again - a personal ritual, you mused. “I’ll leave it up to you, since you’re so miserable being forced to play the game. Seems only fair.”

“Why do I get the feeling this is going to be decidedly unfair?”

“Because you’re smarter than you give yourself credit for.” Ah - you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from beaming at his praise. “So, your choice: I can either take your credits, or information.”

Turning your head so you could give him a sidelong squint, you murmured, “What kind of information?”

“Nothing too damning,” Wolffe shrugged, entirely too casual to put any of your immediate concerns at ease. “And if it’s something you’re too uncomfortable to share, I’ll think of something else.”

“So twenty questions, but I have to wait until you beat me at a hand of Sabacc each time? The odds don’t really seem stacked in my favor.”

“Tell you what,” he offered, dealing out the first hand, “if you can beat me, you get to ask a question. Same rule as when we started though: five hands.” He smirked again, and you felt a thrill of excitement and frustration in equal measure. “Maybe you’ll get there - in the next month.”

“Bring it on, old man.”

He beat you in record time for the first question, and you braced yourself. But no amount of mental gymnastics could prepare you for just how ruthless Wolffe can be when he put his mind to it.

“What was the breaking point that made you join the Rebellion?” Wolffe held up a hand the moment you took a breath to give your answer. “And don’t give me the whole ‘it was the right thing to do, I wanted to be a hero’ bullshit.” It was brief, but you saw it: a flash of pain in his expression, older than the Rebellion itself. You recognize you saw it only because he let you. “People aren’t heroes - legends derived from them are.”

“Wow,” you blinked owlishly, “okay. I guess…” Your head dropped with a groan when the answer came to you, because it immediately felt childish and self-centered. “Spite.”

“‘Spite?’” Wolffe sounded about as incredulous as you’d assumed he would. “That is not at all what I was expecting from you.”

“Have you met me?” With a playful scoff, you gave your hand back to him, considering your next words while you watched him shuffle the deck again. “Half my personality is spite, or fueled by it.”

“Alright, point taken.” He rolled his eyes at you, dealing out the next hand in record time. And then beating you in record time. “Why join the Rebellion out of spite?”

“The Empire took something from me that I worked very hard for.” Your eyes drifted down as guilt twisted at your insides. “Something that seems childish looking back on it.”

“What was it?”

“My degree.” He balked at that, his brow furrowing together, and you held up a hand. “Let me explain - I was months away from graduating. It was guaranteed that I would graduate, and then the Empire just decided that the resources and funding for the university were wasted, and reallocated them to fund weapon manufacturing.” Shifting in your seat, you glanced away from him. “Told you it seems childish.”

“You’re right.” His voice is colder than it had been, and that cut you deep. “It is childish.” That twisted the knife, and you let your head fall slightly. Shame filled you, making your eyes burn. If you almost cry in front of Wolffe again, you’d never be able to face him. But then you heard him knock on the deck again, “But you stayed.”

“I did.” You lifted your head, risking a glance in his direction. He watches you closely, carefully - your next words would decide the trajectory of the rest of this strange conversational set up. “Because it was the right thing to do. For me, anyway.”

He beat you again, in silent contemplation this time. Then,

“Right for you how?”

“I joined the Rebellion to get back at the Empire.” You shrugged, “If I could land at least one blow against them, it would all feel worth it. But then - well. I’ve never even held a blaster. Can’t fly. But I knew basic first-aid, and I know how to figure out what makes people tick, so,” you gestured to the room around you, “here I am.”

You lost again.

“Do you regret it? Staying, I mean.”

“No.” The answer came quickly, no knee-jerk compulsion to try to excuse your reasoning or logic. “Not at all. This isn’t anything close to what everyone else has to go through, I know that.” You glanced meaningfully at his leg, and couldn’t help but chuckle when he huffed. “But…it’s where I’m meant to be.” Pushing your hand back towards him, you stared at a nearby wall, your gut still roiling with guilt and nerves. “At least here, I can be a little useful.”

The warmth of his hand covered yours before you can pull away, and your head snapped round to stare at him. You immediately let your eyes fall to focus on his hand, immediately taken aback by the intensity of his stare. But Wolffe had other plans.

Before you could even mourn the loss of his hand on yours, he stretched his arm out and grabbed you by the chin between a forefinger and thumb. Then he tilted your head back up, so you had to look at him head-on. None of the intensity left his gaze as he studied your features, and you watched as it softened around the edges some. His nostrils flared as he let out a long breath, and you swear his thumb twitches like he was about to caress your skin.

But that was just wishful thinking on your part, spurred on by the disappointment you can’t deny when he let his hand fall away.

“Each individual in this counts towards a future that’s made better through our efforts. But without you - “ Wolffe paused for a moment, teeth clicking when he closed his mouth. “Well, without you, I’d probably be dead. Small consolation that is --”

“It’s not small,” you protested quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, if Wolffe lifting an eyebrow at you in question was any indication. “You said it yourself - every individual counts.”

Wolffe groaned, rolling his eyes at you before you were hit with the full force of an actual smile from him, “You remind me of my brother - always throwing my own words back at me when I apparently need it.”

“Rex?” He nodded, and you hummed thoughtfully. “Smart man.”

“Don’t let him catch you saying that,” Wolffe groused, shuffling the deck again. “Especially in this context - I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He dealt another hand out and -

Well…you won.

“Oh?” Both of you stared in silent disbelief at your hand - two sets of five from each stave. As your victory began to sink in you started to laugh, grinning from ear to ear as you watched Wolffe’s expression turn from shock to begrudging acceptance. “Ooh, how the turns have tabled.”

“‘Course you would win with a Squadron,” he grumbled, running both hands down his face. “Alright,” Wolffe groaned behind his palms, “go on.”

“Why did you join?” 

It was the first question that came to mind. There are others you would rather have asked, questions he’d scoff at or tease you about. But that was the one you grabbed hold of first. It felt…important. More so when he slowly lowered his hands, clear suspicion in his gaze and under that, something else. Something that made you question if this would go sour.

“To repay a debt.”

That’s all you got out of him - and you were fine with that.

-----

Taglist: @rain-on-kamino, @deewithani, @seeking-kharis, @lackofhonor, @ttzamara

You couldn’t remember the cafe being this busy in a long time. The building was practically bursting at the seams - groups of troopers from at least four different battalions occupying almost every available table, mingling with civilians and the odd senator alike. You weren’t big on crowds, and even if the sound was a bit much, you felt like this was the right decision. It wasn’t often you went to The Coaster for anything other than work. But you were feeling a bit…nostalgic.

A year into your sort-of relationship with Fox was a good excuse, you reasoned.

“Well, lookie who it is.” The familiar sing-song voice of your favorite shift manager draws your attention. Syd gives you that wide, eye-squinty grin that always seemed infected just about everyone around them, one you return. Lucky for you, his voice carries easily over the din after they finish helping the customer in front of them. “Aren’t you off?”

“I’m meeting - someone.” You stumble over the last word, catching yourself a split second before ‘Fox’ slipped out. You glance away from their knowing eyes, shrugging, “Figured I’d go ahead and order.”

“Mhmm,” he hums, shimmying his shoulders playfully. Rolling your eyes at them, the two of you wait until you’re the next person in front of their register. Eyes narrowed in an entirely-too-satisfied smirk, Syd props their forearms on the top of the holoscreen, “Someone, eh?” When you pointedly ignore his salacious tone, Syd leans forward until his chin is resting on one wrist. “Does he happen to wear armor? Red armor, maybe? Does he also not know how to actually get a decent night’s sleep?”

“He’s doing better about that actually.”

“Yeah,” Syd chuckles, low and dirty in the back of their throat. “Yeah I’ll bet he is. I bet you know all sorts of ways to get him to sleep like a baby, don’t’cha?”

“C’mon, Syd, leave her alone.” One of your seasonal coworkers, a Twi’lek everyone called Vee, winks at you over Syd’s head when they straighten back up. “She’s got a hot date to think about without you grilling her.”

“Alriiight, two of my usual, please,” you say, a bit louder than is probably necessary and pointedly ignoring the way your voice cracks. Syd chuckles again.

“The triple large?”

“Have you met me Syd?” Or Fox. 

You decide not to say that last bit out loud.

After giving Syd the appropriate amount of credits (which they then halve and you two bicker briefly about using your discount before you drop it in the donation box), you go in search of any available table. Exchanging quick greetings with some of the regulars as you do. You eventually settle on a table where you can see the entrance. Not for your own benefit.

While you wait for your drinks, you update Fox on the off-chance he’s caught up in work. Punctuality wasn’t something that really existed for Fox, not with the chaotic schedule he had to maintain.

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 01:03:47> I’m at the cafe! No rush of course - looking forward to seeing you though!

After you fetch your drinks, you settle back at your table.

And you wait.

* * *

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 02:45:14> Hey

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 02:45:15> I know you’ve got a schedule to keep up with

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 02:45:17> Just let me know later if you’ll be able to drop by the apartment, okay?

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 02:49:02> Sorry, don’t mean to come off as needy or anything, just missing you

<Message to Unknown Comm Frequency || 03:00:13> I love you

You’re not sure what’s worse. The fact that you can’t really be mad at Fox for standing you up, or the understanding on your coworker’s faces when they see you toss your finished drink. Guilt tears at your stomach, which is also tying itself in knots. You can’t ignore where that guilt is coming from, either.

Face facts: you’re pissed.

Despite knowing that this isn’t his fault, that the whims and needs of senators and other government officials and the general public come first, it’s difficult not to be a little bit frustrated. In the past when Fox hasn’t been able to show up, his reasons were legitimate. You know it isn’t his fault. The frustration still lingers, but without the senators’ names or faces to envision, Fox’s is the only one that surfaces when you’re feeling like this. It’s selfish and you feel stupid and childish for it, and you worry constantly that he might just decide you aren’t worth the effort.

But he always shows up. Fox tries at any rate. Or at least, he makes it up to you when he can’t.

He tries and that’s more than you can say about most people. There will be other days and, little gods willing, other anniversaries.

You squash that thought the second it flits through your head. This line of thinking doesn’t suit your situation, you know. As though they can sense it, Syd catches your eye on your way to the doors, and you can see the pain he shares with you.

“Everything okay?” Their voice is quiet, and when all you can do is shrug, Syd lets out a quiet sound of understanding. “M’sorry, hon.”

“Eh,” you say, shrugging again and forcing a thin smile. “It happens. Kinda used to it.”

“I get it,” they say with a long, slow exhale. Syd glances at the line, which has shortened considerably by now. “Listen, if you wanna hang out and have a few drinks, I get off at --”

The shattering of transparisteel cuts Syd off. In unison the whole cafe turns towards the source of the sound as shards explode inward from one of the windows at the storefront. Shouts of alarm ring out when a metallic sphere arcs through the shattered window, a tail of thick, acrid smoke following it. The moment it touches the floor you see individuals from the GAR moving, feel them brushing past you, and then -

Everything goes white.

Well, that’s not quite right. You aren’t sure how long it takes you to come to, but the white is now replaced with pitch black, interspersed with flashes of white and color. Somehow you’re on the floor, flat on your back, with your head twisted awkwardly to one side.

What’s happening? You think you say that outloud - you feel the friction of something in your throat. But then you realize it’s from the smoke, smoke that fills the entire cafe, almost entirely blinding you. It stings at your eyes, making it nearly impossible to breathe when you try to push yourself upright.

Hands are on you - you flinch until you feel a lekku fall across your shoulder. Vee half drags, half leads you behind the counter, the two of you coughing and hacking the entire way. Syd ushers the two of you into the walk-in fridge, holding one arm across the lower half of his face.

“Syd?!”

“Stay here,” they croak out, and then the door shuts. The sound of the emergency lock activating nearly makes your heart stop.

“What the fuck are they thinking?!” One of your coworkers is on the door the instant the room goes silent. “He can’t be out --”

“Shh.” Vee hisses, grabbing your coworker and hauling him away from the door. All of you, cafe workers and customers alike, turn to her. Her eyes seem fit to burn holes through the door, and you stumble away from it.

Time passes strangely. You’re aware that it’s adrenaline that’s making it like this, but it’s still jarring. What feels like a lifetime creeps by, all while racing too quickly for you to keep up with your brain trying to figure out what’s happened. It works in leaps and bounds, jerky and uneven. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes pass, but you’re convinced hours have crept past by the time you piece together what’s happened.

Your manager had given you a cryptic warning during your interview. People don’t like what we do here. They think giving these soldiers common decency and affordable caf is wrong, somehow. You’d argued that they weren’t paying the rent, or fees to keep the licenses and equipment running. He’d smiled, rueful and exhausted at you. Doesn’t matter. They still hate it. They hate you. They’re going to get in your face, some might follow you around outside of this - but they’re all talk.

It’s the ones who try to keep things quiet you need to worry about.

You can hear it faintly - voices. They aren’t ones you’re familiar with. And they sound so angry. The words are difficult to make out, but you think you can make out a few words.

Mostly because they’re ones you’ve heard about a hundred times before.

Always going to be a threat, the voices say.

Ticking time bombs.

Meat droids.

Dangerous. Murderers.

And then you hear words you’ve never heard before, and you feel a ripple of panic course through everyone around you.

Burn this place to the ground for welcoming them.

Syd’s voice is raised, angry, furious. You feel echoes of it in your chest, a building pressure in your skull. But those are wisps now. Tendrils of barely there smoke.

Because what burns you now is fear. It’s suffocating, all encompassing, it’s --

“Fuck.” 

Vee pulls you further back when you see it. Smoke slowly creeps through the cracks under the sealed door. Terror grips you, and you wrench away from her. The look of hurt barely registers when you turn, looking frantically around the walk-in fridge for something. Anything. That same frantic search takes everyone else, and for a few terrifying seconds, the air in the room seems to get thinner.

Then the door flies open, and at some point you moved back to the door.

And you’re staring down the barrel of a blaster. It drops a half-second afterward, and you see the familiar sight of a t-shaped visor.

“C’mon, move it!” 

You can’t help it: you flinch when hands grab you again, hauling you out. The familiar helmet - Thorn, you recognize belatedly - tilts slightly to one side, minute movements. And then you’re being dragged out with everyone else, ushered with urgency and efficiency that is terrifying in its own right. 

The urgency is understandable - you barely recognize the cafe through the smoke that hasn’t been sucked out of the filtration systems. The back of house is trashed, all of the product on all shelves thrown to the ground. One shelving unit has been ripped out of the bolts in the walls and blocks the way back to the lobby. Scorched pockmarks and streaks of blackened paint marr the walls, and you’re glad for the fact that the light system being off.

Because when you recognize the marks of blasterfire, you don’t want to be able to tell if the liquid splattered on the wall or pooling on the floor in places is blood.

This used to be your safe haven. You met most of your friends here. The ones that stuck around, at least. And now it looks…you’re not sure how it looks. It’s not like anything you’ve ever seen. The sight of it is so jarring, you barely notice the smoke in your lungs until your coughing makes you stumble. Someone has to help you the last few steps out. You’re on the doorstep out the back when you’re pulled in again, hard plastoid digging at your back at awkward angles.

Later, you know it was just instinct. That doesn’t make the guilt, the frustration or panic abate any after the fact. At the moment the latter are at their peak, so the way you thrash in the hold of strong arms is wild and animalistic. Your elbow connects with a gap in pieces of armor, and you feel the grip on your waist release instantly, giving you the opportunity to twist and shove before you spin around and --

“Fox?!”

“Hey, mesh’la,” he grumbles, shaking out his hand and flexing his wrist. The visor tilts in your direction in what you know is an amused look. “Anybody ever tell you that you’ve got a mean elbow? Nearly broke my --”

“Where were you?”

There’s a thick, heavy pause as he draws up to his full height slowly. It’s unbearable, and you’re not sure which is worse. The fact that you could hear the resentment, the anger in your voice, or the fact that you know it is in equal measures justified and misplaced.

You decide quickly that the worst part is he showed up at all.

“Don’t do this, mesh--”

“Don’t you boss me around like I’m one of your fucking men,” you hiss, glaring at his helmet for a few seconds before wheeling around and storming out the cafe.

Everything is a blur. You’re angry, hurt - really hurt, you’ve got a splitting headache that builds and builds and builds the closer you get to your speeder. But most of all, you’re scared, and you can’t wrap your head around any of this. You’re shaking, and you don’t notice that until you try to run your hand over your face. Lights flash and sirens blare and you cut through the crowds that have formed around the cafe, feeling the shocked and curious gazes pinned on you when they see the state of you.

It’s only when you pass in front of one of the windows that you see why. Your outfit is covered in ash, torn in more than one spot along the right side of your body. And you’re crying.

Because of course you’re crying.

It doesn’t even feel fair. This isn’t about you. You know that. This is what those people stand for, what a majority of the fucking Republic stands for. It’s sickening, and it fills you with a new kind of self loathing, but still. You’re crying.

Sobbing, really, when you struggle with your helmet, knees giving out. This time when hands reach out and catch you, you don’t flinch.

You knew he would follow you.

When he fails to bring you back up to your feet, Fox sinks down with you. His gruff voice gets a little wobbly at the end, and that wrings a fresh wave of tears out of you. Speaking low through the vocoder, helmet tilted close enough that you can hear him. But far enough away that anyone watching won’t think anything untoward is happening between you.

“I’m sorry - you have to stay.” When you shake your head, his hands squeeze gently. “Please, listen to me. We need a statement.”

“Of fucking course,” you spit out, trying to shove Fox’s hands away. Your skin crawls under your clothes - his touch has never made you feel like this. But is it really him? Or the minutes spent in that fridge thinking you’d never see him again? Which also makes you feel selfish, because everyone was scared, and everyone could have died and -

“Cyar’ika?” Fox sounds rattled, which isn’t something you’ve ever heard coming from him. His hands fall away after a moment as you feel him desperately trying to search your expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Syd.” Your unfocused vision sharpens when it lands on the entrance, and to your complete horror you see a stretcher being pulled out. And it’s covered. “Syd, is he - where are they?” Fox’s helmet turns away from your sharply after a beat, and now you reach out to him. Fingers scrabbling at his armor as you try to pull yourself closer, but he stands abruptly, leaving you in a heap on the duracrete. “Fox - please. Please, tell me they’re okay.”

“I can’t, mesh’la, I don’t - the regs.”

“Fuck the regs!” The world spins wildly on its axis when you stand up, but you don’t care. Your heart is thundering in your chest, your whole body quaking with something you cannot and dare not name. It’s something like fury, but it’s also terror. But deep down, you know.

You just know.

“Please, just come with me, and we’ll - I’m going to find him, mesh’la.”

“So they’re not dead?” There’s another pause before he turns his helmet away from you, the rest of his body following the movement as he storms back to the ruined shell that was once the cafe. Moments ago you wanted nothing more than to run away from him, and now you find yourself stumbling over your own feet to catch up to him. “Fox, come on, give me something, anything. They’re my best friend, I need - please, I just --”

You don’t get the rest of the words out, your knees buckling again as you fall for the second time that night. But this time, Fox is there to catch you. It’s bittersweet, knowing it’s too late.

“We’re going to find him.” 

Fox’s voice comes from far away - but you can almost feel the sincerity in his words. His hands squeeze at your shoulders before he lifts one, and he goes silent for a while. You stare vacantly at the juncture of where his blacks don’t cover the underside of his jaw, the sliver of skin that shows between the seals. You reach up and run the back of your knuckles against his skin.

He’s warm - the safe kind of heat. It twists at something under your ribs, equal parts cruelty and a soul-deep affection. This wasn’t about you - this was about him. About his brothers.

But now they’ve dragged your friend into it, and nothing makes sense anymore.

“You were supposed to be there.”

Fox is holding you. Holding you in a way he never has. Like you’ll break. But you’re already broken.

It’s funny - now you two have that in common, too.

“I know.” His voice is off again, but now it comes from his throat in a dry, achy rasp. “There was - something happened. I can’t tell you. But I wanted to be here, mesh’la, maybe then I could have…I wouldn’t have…” His chest lifts and falls sharply, and the words come from Fox so low you know he’s turned off all of his comm channels so only his vocoder picks up his voice. “Please tell me what I can do. There has to be something I can do.”

“Bring Syd home,” you say, though it sounds more like you’re begging. Fox stares at you in silence for a few moments, then nods with a sense of finality.

He sits with you where you fell until they let you go home, and when the artificial sunlight filters through the blinds the next morning, he’s still holding you.

Neither one of you slept.

Taglist: @seeking-kharis, @lackofhonor, @jabbas-lightsaber, @rain-on-kamino, @thefanficsideblog

“It’s about two cadets. No, not cadets - vod. Because that’s what they were. Comrades. Friends. Brothers. Even if one of them wanted to deny it.

“They were always running late - the younger by an infinitesimal fraction of a second could barely keep his head out of the clouds, stormy and unforgiving as they were. Always asking questions. Always seeking the next adventure. Whether that was in different battle simulations or trying to talk the alphas into giving him a few tips.

“His brother never understood why. Never tried to. Too deeply entrenched in adhering to regulations, in becoming the best weapon he could be. Not a soldier - a weapon. A tool of war. Because that’s all he ever saw himself as. Just another clip in the blaster, the switch on the detonator.

“The brothers were about four when the phrase became a regular occurrence - ‘tick, tock, boys, haven’t got all day!’ The daydreamer kept bringing it up.” 

Sarge’s nostrils flare as he lifts the bottle to his lips again. He’s getting sloppy. Some of it trickles down his chin, dipping down past his jaw and soaking into the hem of his blacks. But he doesn’t notice.

Riggs doesn’t mention it.

“‘Why do they keep saying that, do you wonder?’ He’d always ask the older one. ‘Do you suppose it means something more?’ And the older would scoff, ‘It means we’re lagging behind and could get relegated to latrine duty for life, idiot. Keep up and stop asking so many questions.’

“But he never listened. Never bloody listened when it mattered most.

“‘Some of the others are giving each other names,’ he said once, ‘So, d’you figure we could?’ The other cut the younger brother off. ‘That’s against the rules.’ But the daydreamer kept bringing it up - each time the instructors would get onto them. ‘Tick, tock, boys.’ His eyes, the only one with gray eyes out of the whole batch, would light up. ‘We’re the Tick Tock Boys, did ya hear that?’”

The bottle that’s now mostly backwash hits the table with a dull thunk. Sarge is usually really good with masking - so the moment his emotions start to eat at him, Riggs sees it.

“Older one kept telling the younger, ‘Stop that, you’ll get us into trouble.’ The younger would ask, ‘But why? Why do you think that? They’re just names. Just words.’ The older tried to ignore him. Tried to tell him off anytime he’d start asking questions, start talking, and the older one didn’t like dreaming. Didn’t like thinking of anything other than doing what he was created to be.

“But he did. Gods help him, he did, because the younger one kept dropping those seeds without realizing. His words became the sun, his presence the soil, and though the seeds took root they always shriveled up and died. ‘What’s the point?’ The older was always asking this. ‘Why bother thinking of what comes after the war, when the likelihood of us surviving it is less than zero?’

“‘Because we’re destined for greater things, brother.’ That’s what he said. That’s what he always said. ‘We’re the Tick Tock Boys, and time waits on us.’

“The fucking god complex on that one.” Sarge glances up at the ceiling, chuckling. Riggs hasn’t ever heard him laugh before. He’s not sure if that’s more alarming than the inevitable ending he’s guessing at. “He knew he was different. Could’ve been an ARC. Hells, could’ve worked his way up to becoming a bloody captain if he put his mind to it. But his mind wasn’t ever in the war.

“That’s what got him killed.”

Ah. There it is. Riggs grips his shot glass tighter. Can’t bring himself to finish what’s left in it - enough for him to taste it. But his stomach is roiling.

Riggs doubts he’ll be sleeping tonight. He almost snorts at the thought.

What else is new?

“Somehow, against all odds, they made it through training. Made it all the way to Geonosis. Saw their first Jedi - the ones the daydreamer talked about so often. ‘Do you think they can see things? Really see them. What do you think it’s like? Deja vu, maybe? But in reverse?’

“The chatter didn’t let up. The whole time, the younger was just yammering away. He was excited - couldn’t deny he was. Even if he wanted more, he knew how to be a soldier. Knew how to take down a clanker like no one else I’ve ever seen.”

It’s difficult for Riggs not to suck in a sharp breath at that. He knows - knew a few sentences in this was Sarge’s story. But hearing it is like being dunked in ice water.

Might be comparable to facing the fury of an explosive from two meters away.

“Lost sight of him.” Sarge shakes his head, the same muscle jumps in his jaw. Riggs isn’t the most intelligent man he knows, but what he lacks in book smarts he makes up for in emotional intelligence. He knows fury when he feels it. It radiates off of Sarge. “Last thing he said was - fuck, starting to forget even that.” His commanding officer glances at the ceiling, a bitter smile and a short, soft laugh escaping him. “Too much has happened. Too much happened then. He was going after one of our batchers - saw him get dragged off by a couple of bugs.

“‘We’re getting out of this, Tock.’ Always called me that. Even though I was older, even though by rights I should have been Tick. But he was stubborn. As stubborn as any I’ve ever met - even to the end. I went after him when I could, when Commander Hornet gave the order to rally our squadrons to give the jedi some covering fire.

“When I found them, JB was still alive. But only just. Tick was in worse shape. Torn to shreds by one of the bugs’ fuckin’ dogs. Armor didn’t do shit to protect my brother, but the charge he shoved in the massiff’s throat took it out. Took out the bugs, too, when it ran back. Tick had the nerve to laugh - fuckin’ laugh - when I told him to hold on.

“‘Nothing to hold on with,’ he said, lifted a stump. Took his hand off when he dropped the charge. His other arm - he couldn’t even feel it when I grabbed his hand. I couldn’t even see his face. Didn’t have time - but I took off my bucket. Just to yell at him.

“Called him every word in every language - all two of them -that I knew. Cursed the Republic, the bugs, hell, cursed the jedi and the stars along with them. Started begging. But he was done for. We both knew he was.

“‘I’ve never seen you cry before, 1307.’ I’ll never know why he called me that in the end. Maybe he thought he was dreaming of a different life - one where we’d switched places. Maybe it was because he was pissed. Pissed I’d always told him not to call me that, because he could see it for what it was but I was in denial until the end.

“Never going to forgive myself for that.” Sarge swallows the last of the whiskey. “I think he did it because he thought I was still mad about it. Still mad that he was trying to make us both feel more like we were human. And I was. Because if I let myself feel human, I’d have to face it. Face the fact that he was my brother, my best friend, and that he’d been trying to offer water for the seeds to flourish the whole damn time. It wasn’t ever for him - it was for me. Because he saw it. Saw that I was hurting. That I was suffering.

“‘Live, brother.’ It wasn’t a request - it was an order. ‘Live for me.’ Tried to tell him we’d both live, but we knew that was a lie.

“That’s when ol’ Cap found us. Got a medical evac for us. But not for him. Took one look at him and said he was sorry. I think he actually meant it, y’know? Like he could see it. But I refused. Until they started pulling me away. I heard one of them say my designation, and Riggs - I still can’t believe I did this. I punched him. Punched him so hard that, even with his bucket on, I knocked him flat on his ass. Almost got my promotion taken away.

“‘Tock,’ I said, when they started asking what the hell was wrong with me. ‘My name is Tock. Use it, or next time I’ll go for your codpiece.’”

“Did you?” Sarge barks out a laugh, gives Riggs an incredulous, amused look.

“Feck no.” He rolls his eyes. “Had to use a sedative on me - didn’t realize I got clipped in the side.” When he shifts Riggs knows he’s reliving feeling that old wound when it was fresh, almost a year ago now. “I can’t know for sure, but Tick - I think he heard me. Time of death was about thirty seconds after they’d dragged me off - s’when his vitals stopped showing up in the records.

“Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wonder if that’s how he felt. Like sleep was just there, right there - but it was still evading him. I wondered if he could hear his own heartbeat as it slowed down. If he heard the fury I felt. Or maybe he didn’t hear anything at all. Maybe he muted his helmet, or started playing that stupid fuckin’ jazz bullshit he always loved.”

The silence that falls between them isn’t particularly suffocating. Not yet at least. It’s the kind of reverent silence that so many of them have grown numb to. And at the same time, the one that each of them feels in the deepest parts of themselves. Down to the marrow of their bones, maybe deeper, something that not one of them can fathom.

So far as Riggs knows, at any rate.

Parts of the squadron’s sergeant makes sense now. But only some of them. Riggs doesn’t know why he eats his ration bars the way he does, for example. (It’s weird.) Doesn’t know why he got the tattoos on his chin, what they mean to him. There’s only one question now that burns at him, eats away at a piece of him that, when he asks the question he knows will never recover.

Sarge sees this, of course.

“Go on. Out with it.”

“Sorry, sir. I just - why me?”

There’s another pause, this one thicker, as Sarge lifts his eyebrows incredulously. Like it’s obvious. But it isn’t, not to Riggs, who shrugs a little helplessly. With a sigh, Sarge looks away,

“Because you talk back like he did. And if anyone would get the squadron to drop the bloody ‘Sarge’ bullshit, it’d be you.”

“That can’t be it.” 

Riggs knows that’s not it. Sets his chin, facing Sarge - Tock, he corrects himself for the first time - directly. The scarred eyebrow lifts in what he now recognizes as an unimpressed look, but Riggs ignores it, and the tiny voice that’s getting quieter every day that tells him to shut up. 

“How d’you figure, corporal?”

“I just do.” Something uncomfortable coils and undulates in his guts, and his arms cross over his ribs. Compressing against himself to try and still the discomfort. “So - out with it.”

After barking out a laugh, the words leave in a quiet mumble,

“When we make it out of this war, I’m taking as many of you with me as I can. And I need a vod that I can trust to keep me from giving the orders that’ll put me in an early grave.”

Tock stands up, doesn’t look at him or utter a single word as he does.

And then he leaves.

Riggs helps himself to the second bottle they didn’t get to. He tries not to think about how Quickshot will probably kill him when he shows up in the medcenter tomorrow while he chugs the whole thing.

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Welcome to the soldier side, Where there’s no one left but me -SoaD: Intro

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