#post-umbara

Chapter 7: Bother

Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Dogma hadn’t felt this comfortable in a long time. Sure, his head was foggy from sleep and his muscles were a little sore, but curled up with his batchmate, he felt almost… normal. Of course, Tup had to ruin it by shifting around, stealing the blankets and getting his hair in Dogma’s face.

Spluttering as some of Tup’s hair got uncomfortably close to his mouth, Dogma forced himself awake with a groan. “Tup…” he complained, rolling over to get away from his batchmate’s hair. He didn’t remember the other trooper joining him in his bunk last night, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d–

“Who’s Tup?” Comet asked, and all at once, reality snapped back into place. Dogma flinched, going stiff in Comet’s– not Tup’s– arms. Dogma closed his eyes again and let out a long sigh, but Tup was still gone, and he missed his brother like a limb. 

The illusion had dissipated, but at least he’d slept through the night. He hadn’t done that in a long time.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again and looked back at Comet, a little surprised that the other had stayed with him all night. He couldn’t have been too comfortable, overheating next to a feverish Dogma under a mountain of blankets. But the other simply gave him a grin before sitting up with a stretch.

“Sleep well, Dogma?” Comet asked, smiling at the name, still exciting in its newness. 

Dogma cleared his throat, nodding. Surprisingly, he felt much better than the day before. A good night’s sleep really worked wonders. 

“Good!” Comet continued. “The others already left for firstmeal, but they’re bringing something back for us. We’ve got the next day or two off while you and Wolffe recover, so I think the others were going to try and play some sabaac, if you feel up to joining.”

Biting his lip, Dogma felt a pool of guilt rise in his stomach. They’d been taken off the mission schedule… for him? If he hadn’t been so close to the cliff’s edge, Commander Wolffe might not have gotten hurt, and– 

“And the Commander?” He asked hesitantly, which Comet took careful note of even as he continued stretching.

“Oh yeah, Wolffe’ll be fine. He’s got a hard head; he came back to the barracks last night, not long after you fell asleep. He’s got orders to stay away from screens for the next 72 hours– would be longer without bacta, but he’s mostly in the clear. Last I checked, he was more worried about you.” 

At that, Comet gave Dogma a searching look. “You look a lot better than you did yesterday, at least.”

Dogma nodded, relieved to be feeling more like himself. “I can actually breathe now, which is an improvement, and my headache’s gone. I don’t know if I still have a fever, but I feel better.” He suspected that after a shower, he’d feel almost brand-new.

At the good news, Comet grinned. “Glad to hear it. Was starting to get worried you’d never stop shivering, vod’ika.”

Rolling his eyes, Dogma responded even while his ears flushed pink. “It wasn’t that bad…” 

“Yeah, and you weren’t using the General’s cloak like a blanket either. Right, vod?” Comet asked, sounding smug.

Dogma cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure vod, sure.”

Dogma’s next words were interrupted by a sneeze, and when Comet started laughing, he gave the other a sullen glare before promptly shoving him off the bed.

_______________________

"Hmm… never have I ever… dyed my hair!” Warthog shared, the pilot grinning as Sinker, Boost, and even Comet let out groans of defeat, losing a point in their game. 

The Wolfpack had played a few rounds of sabaac until Fixer had suggested a game of “Never Have I Ever,” and Dogma was enjoying getting to know a little bit more about the rest of the Wolfpack. They each started with ten points, taking turns saying something they had never done, and those who had done that activity lost a point. It was actually pretty illunimating.

For example, Fixer apparently went through several different names before arriving at his current one, and Patch had never gotten a tattoo. Boost had the dubious honor of passing out in a very embarrassing position once, and Comet was double-jointed. Currently, Wolffe and Dogma were winning, with about seven points remaining from their original ten. Boost and Sinker were tied for lowest at three. 

“Who’s next?” Comet asked, smiling in enthusiasm.

“I am,” Sinker leaned forward with a smirk. “Never have I ever… grown out my hair.” His face lit up with maniacal glee as nearly half the group put a finger down, including Warthog, Dogma, Comet, and even Boost, who was quick to protest that, “It was a phase, okay?!” with his face flushing a bright red.

Apparently he’d kept the red-striped pattern much longer as cadets, and it had been quite the look, according to Sinker.

“You too, Pup?” Fixer asked with a grin, using the nickname out of habit more than anything else. He’d been just as happy as the rest of them when Dogma finally shared his name with the rest of the squad.

Dogma grimaced but nodded. During his time after Umbara, he didn’t exactly have access to hair-clippers, so his usual hairstyle had gotten more than a little disheveled before he’d managed to fix it, which technically counted in his book. Couldn’t go around cheating or making excuses for himself, even if he was the only one to know. 

“Still nothing, Commander? Come on, live a little!” Sinker complained; he’d been hoping to get Wolffe to admit to at least one embarrassing choice he’d made in the past.

Commander Wolffe smirked but otherwise refused to respond, taking a measured sip of his kaff.

“I know one that can get him,” Boost started with a grin. “Never have I ever won a fight with a Jedi!”

A long silence followed before Wolffe reluctantly lowered a finger, indicating that he’d lost a point, and Boost gave a victorious cheer.

Wolffe’s voice took on a warning tone. “You know, targeting your superior officers can–” The others interrupted, chuckling and teasing the Commander, but Dogma sat in frozen silence, an empty pit of dread welling up in his stomach as his face went cold. 

What he did to Krell could never count as winning, not truly– not after all the lives that had been taken, the blood that had been spilled. No, that blaster bolt had been justice; a desperate attempt at triage that came far too late… Dogma may have killed Krell, but some nights, it still felt like Krell had won that fight…

“ –gma? Kid, it’s your turn.” Snapping back to the present with a shudder, Dogma shrank back at the realization that he had the attention of the room.

“You feeling alright, Dogma?” Patch asked, going into medic mode as he took note of his pale complexion and shaking hands. “Not pushing yourself too soon?”

Dogma swallowed around the tightness in his throat, giving the medic a nod. “No, I-I’m fine.”

Fixer raised an eyebrow. “If this is fine, kid, I’m a little worried what your definition of ‘not fine’ is. Did something happen? Or is it about something else?” 

Dogma tried again. “I-I don’t–” “Don’t want to talk about it?” Fixer interrupted, not unkindly. “I figured, but… not talking about it isn’t helping you, vod.” 

“Fixer,” Patch whispered warningly. They’d agreed not to push Dogma for his secrets, and yeah, Patch was worried too, but the kid got so skittish sometimes, and he worried that they’d scare him away for good.

“What? It’s not! The kid’s pale as a sheet, obviously freaking out about something, and we’re just supposed to ignore it?” Fixer fired back, worried.

Meanwhile, Dogma flinched, rubbing anxiously at his wrists. This was it– They’d realize that he was too rigid, too damaged– too much Dogma, b-but he couldn’t– couldn’t be what they wanted, and– 

“ –ey, deep breaths, Dogma. Come on kid, nice and slow.” Surprisingly, it was Boost this time who’d crouched in front of him, gently grasping his wrists so he’d stop scratching at them. 

Dogma nodded, attempting to obey even while his thoughts continued to spiral. He coughed a little as he regained his breath, and was surprised when one of the others offered him a hydropac. After a moment, he’d managed to regulate his breathing a little. He took a few quick gulps before trying to apologize. “S-Sorry…”

Boost sat back on his heels, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “Kriff, kid, you don’t need to apologize… Fixer’s not the only one who’s worried though. Took a few years off my life when you and Wolffe went over that cliff.”

Dogma opened his mouth to apologize again before thinking better of it, eyes locked on his hands in his lap, clenched into fists. He jumped a little when a small, round object was pressed into them by another hand before looking up and realizing that Patch had handed him one of the stress-balls he kept in his kit. 

He heard a brief scuffle around him, and a quiet “ow” before Fixer spoke again. “Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dogma. Sorry for pushing.”

“I-It’s not your fault…. I didn’t mean to be a bother...” Dogma curled in on himself again, wishing they’d just move on, but to his surprise, quiet footsteps approached before the Commander was sitting next to him.

Wolffe put a supportive hand on his shoulder before drawing him in a little. “You, Dogma, are not a bother.” His heart ached for Dogma and his prying need to go unnoticed; he’d seen it, the little half-flinch every time someone called him ‘vod,’ and the times he’d just shrink into himself. Just what had happened, to make Dogma think he was no longer deserving of brotherly affection?

Sinker interjected, “Please, be a bother! It’s better than bottling everything up– you don’t have to deal with everything alone, vod. Not here.”

Dogma’s ears were a bright red now, squirming under the weight of the Wolfpacks’s protective instincts, but he also felt oddly comforted. Almost… safe. 

He looked up, seeing Sinker’s earnest worry, Patch’s quiet concern, and feeling Wolffe’s presence beside him, steady and supporting, and he struggled to understand it. 

“Why?” The word left him before he could stop himself. 

“Why what, Dogma?” Comet asked quietly.

A million questions raced through Dogma’s head. Why did they care? Why weren’t they annoyed? Why do they want me?

But those questions were too vulnerable, too dangerous to share, so instead he directed his quiet question towards Sinker, asking, “Why do you want to know?”

Sinker gave him a small, almost sad, smile, seeming to pick up on the questions Dogma was afraid to ask. “Because we care about you, Dogma. You’re one of us now, our vod, and it hurts to see you hurting.”

Dogma’s breath caught in his throat, but Sinker’s words did little to assuage the clawing guilt. They had to know– they deserved to know. They’d given him so much trust and affection, and it felt like a lie to keep it from them any longer.

“There’s… I-I– some stuff, I can’t talk about. Not allowed to, without the proper clearance, a-and some I’m not ready to talk about…” and likely never would be, but… 

“G-General Plo wasn’t my first commanding officer,” he started, finally confirming what they already knew; Dogma was not a shiny. 

“B-But my last one… he didn’t like clones very much.” Wolffe’s hand on his shoulder tightened for half a second before the Commander reined himself in, but Dogma felt almost bolstered by his defensiveness.

“He used us as meat-shields in battle strategies that were, b-beyond jareor– He called us by our numbers, threatened us with firing squads if we debated his orders… a-and when my brothers stood against him, I… didn’t.” Dogma’s voice cracked at the last bit, still ashamed of his naivety and ignorance. 

“A lot more happened, a-and that CO’s actions became a danger to the Republic, but even then, I didn’t believe it until he was spitting treason in my face.” He shuddered, Krell’s words echoing in the back of his head.

“And you, Dogma, were the biggest fool of them all!”

A lone tear slid down his face. “I-I don’t deserve to be called a brother.”

His breath hitched, and his grip on his wrist tightened. 

Dogma didn’t expect it when the Commander drew him into a tight hug, almost flinching at the sudden pressure before melting into it. “Let us decide that for ourselves, vod’ika.” Wolffe almost growled in righteous anger, but instead of tensing up, Dogma only felt more safe. 

And as the rest of the Wolfpack joined in, first making sure that he wasn’t overwhelmed, Dogma let his head rest on Wolffe’s shoulder, the ever-present shame and guilt starting to fade, no longer a tight knot in his stomach.

“You’re not getting rid of us that easily, Dogma.” Comet said, voice muffled by the others’ blacks. A round of agreements followed.

They stayed like that for a little while, until Dogma started to shift, reaching the end of his tolerance for physical touch, so the others settled back in their original spots, if a little closer than before.

“Do we wanna continue the game?” Fixer asked, looking around at the group.

Dogma nodded along with the others, huffing a small laugh as Boost needled Sinker for trying to claim more points than he actually had left.

“Your turn, pup.” Wolffe said, 

“Never have I ever owned civilian clothing.” He offered at last, a shadow of a smile crossing his face as everyone else lost a point.

“That’s something we’ll have to change, vod’ika.” Boost sighed, shaking his head wearily.

_______________________

Cold shadows and familiar mist filled Tup’s vision. When he closed his eyes, he’d been safe in the barracks, but now dull purples and neon reds surrounded him on all sides. His stomach clenched with dread, but he knew he was back on Umbara. 

Crouching in a dark trench, he could feel the grit between his fingers, and chills went up his spine as he heard a terrifyingly familiar voice, guttural and irate. With a sharp intake of breath, he muttered, “I-It can’t be–”

Turning around, he nearly came face-to-chest with General Krell, the Besalisk towering over him like always, looking down his nose at Tup. He glanced around, for an escape or one of his brothers, he didn’t know, but he was completely alone. 

“Well… CT-5385… looks like you’re all alone. Run out of brothers to kill?” Voice dripping in cruelty, Krell gestured behind him to a pile of bodies, stacks of armor bleeding with golden-yellow and blue. At the word “brothers,” his lips curled with smug irony.

“G-General Krell, I-I… how–” Tup flinched despite himself, thinking of all the lives he’d taken on that force-forsaken planet, and how many brothers had died by Krell’s hand.

In the back of his mind, a small portion of his subconscious realized that he was dreaming; he had to be. So with his arms still shaking, he curled his hands into fists and turned to Krell, eyes angry.  “You’re not a General anymore, you don’t deserve that honor. And Captain Rex said we’re men! Not numbers! A-And you’re dead! You can’t hurt any of us, not anymore!”

Krell gave a harsh laugh, seeming to get taller as he towered over Tup. “Pitiful… is that what you tell yourself in order to comfort your little clone friends? You are men?”

He leaned down so he was face-to-face with Tup, a harsh hand jabbing his chest. “You are an experiment! An abomination!” 

Knocking aside his helmet, Krell gripped Tup’s head in one large hand, gesturing to his armor and hair. “You think these little trinkets make you an individual? Make you human? They don’t! You and the rest of you clones… are nothing but meat shields! Pawns in a higher game– one that your incompetent little minds cannot comprehend! You were made to die for nothing!”

Tup struggled in Krell’s grip, reaching for his blaster but coming up empty. His feet scrabbled as Krell lifted him off the ground. Chest bursting with helpless rage, Tup grit out, “I-I’m not afraid– Do your worst!” Feeling around his belt, Tup managed to get a hand on his vibroknife.

Krell’s voice took on a sickly-sweet tone. “You should be very afraid, CT-5385... I may be dead, but you are not. You cannot harm me, but I am more than ready to harm you...  Just ask Dogma.. He’s already had a taste.. A small one but, an experience nonetheless.. His real pain will come from killing you.”

Tup’s eyes widened when, all of a sudden, Dogma appeared beside them, gun in hand, shaking and looking as distraught as Tup had ever seen him, and that’s when Tup made his move. With an angry yell, he struck in one swift blow, aiming for Krell’s arm around his neck, but with a simple wave of his other hand, Krell knocked the blade across the room. He smiled cruelly at Tup in a way that sent chills down his spine. “As I said.. pitiful.”

Disarmed but not fully restrained, Tup put all his strength into a last ditch swing, aiming for Krell’s jiggling throat sack like he wished he’d had the courage to do all those days ago. He thought to himself, knowing it could be the last thing he did. “For my vode, who I wish I could have helped when it mattered…”

Rough hands restrained Tup’s, and all of a sudden, a single shot of blasterfire went off. A burning pain pierced Tup’s abdomen and the world faded to black.

____________________

Jerking awake with one hand on his vibroknife, Tup gasped for breath, still feeling the non-existent blaster wound in his chest. He took a few shuddering breaths before standing up, making his way to the fresher. He splashed his face a few times, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “J-Just a dream, di’kut…”

He looked at his reflection in the mirror with a sigh. It’s been six months since Umbara, to the day, and it still shook him up inside. He grimaced at the small bags under his eyes, hair a tangled mess. Shaking his head, he grabbed a hairtie on his wrist and corralled it into a poor attempt for a bun, hands still fighting for steadiness.

With his heart still trying to beat out of his chest, he sighed to himself. There’s no way he’d be able to fall back asleep after a nightmare like that. He muttered tiredly, “Maybe I’ll head to the mess, get something to drink… try to clear my head.” 

Exiting the fresher, Tup made his way to the mess hall. He hoped Dogma was getting better sleep than him; he’d heard his vod muttering in his sleep earlier, but had decided to let him be. As he walked down the halls, he checked his chrono, learning that it was nearly 0200. Rounding the corner, Tup looked up and nearly collided with another trooper still in their blacks. 

The other trooper had been almost racing the opposite direction when their paths met, and Tup started when he recognized their familiar V-shaped tattoo. “Sorry, I– Tup? What are you doing awake?” Dogma jumped a little at the realization, shoulders tense.

Tup gave him a brief smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey Dogma… couldn’t sleep. Bad dreams…” He glanced at his brother, noticing a familiar worry-line on his forehead. “... you okay? You look a little stressed.”

Dogma straightened, biting his lip and looking away from Tup. “No, I’m fine.” He fidgeted with the sleeves of his blacks, a tell they’d both shared since Kamino, so Tup pressed a little.

“Do you mean “no, I’m not fine,” or “yes, I’m fine?” Because it sounds more like the first one to me, vod.”

Dogma hesitated, glancing back at Tup reluctantly, noticing for the first time how messy his hair was. Tup’s hair had two main states: down and relaxed or up and tight, passing any GAR inspection. Unless someone else was trying out new hairstyles on him, Tup didn’t really do messy buns, except for now, that is. Paired with his fake smile and minutely shaking hands, they didn’t give Dogma a good picture. 

Head tilting in quiet concern, he ignored Tup’s question, asking, “What about you? Nightmares don’t usually have you this worked up.”

Tup sighed, running one hand through his hair. “I’ll be okay in a little. It’s just… Krell again…” He wrapped his arms around himself. “I was back on Umbara, and he was there… calling us meat droids and pawns. I tried to fight him, b-but I was useless. Couldn’t even throw a punch at that stupid throat sack of his… a-and then he ordered you to shoot me…” 

Hands shaking as he clenched them into fists, Tup rubbed his forehead in defeat. “... sometimes I wish we could forget Umbara altogether…”

Dogma went pale at the mention of Umbara, breath catching in his throat. “Wait, you– that’s… that’s not possible! He-he can’t–” He broke off, shaking his head rapidly. 

Swallowing thickly, Dogma’s eyes filled with dread. “He… he told me that I was going to hurt you– that your blood would be on my hands… I-I dreamed I was on Umbara, and there was a blaster in my hands, and–” He gripped his head with his hands, eyes shut tightly as he started to hyperventilate.

Tup’s eyes widened in surprised concern. “Woah, Dogma, hey… it’s okay, vod…” He reached for Dogma, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, telegraphing his movements so Dogma could push away if he wanted. 

Lightly squeezing his shoulder, Tup spoke again. “None of this is your fault, a-and none of it was your fault back then either. Krell’s gone; h-he can’t hurt us anymore.” 

He gestured to his clean blacks, not a spot on them or any sign of injury. “Look, see? I’m okay, Dogma. We’re okay…” Slowly, not wanting to startle him further, Tup leaned forward to tap their foreheads together, like they’d do as cadets, the arm on his shoulder light enough to allow Dogma to escape if he needed space, but heavy enough to ground him back in the present.

Dogma forced himself to calm down a little, fighting to sync his breathing to Tup’s. He leaned into Tup’s embrace until the tightness in his chest started to ease a little bit. Voice hoarse, he muttered, “Yeah, I… Sorry– Sorry…” He stayed like that for a little longer before pulling away, finally managing some semblance of calmness.

Tup let Dogma pull away, looking relieved as he calmed down a little. Focusing on Dogma kept his own worry at bay. “I don’t mind, Dogma… you don’t need to apologize, vod. Especially not for that.” Looking around the empty hallway, he decided to sit down so his back was against the wall, and after a beat, Dogma joined him. “Sorry for scaring you, I-I just… it made me worry too, you know?”

Dogma nodded in understanding, not that he’d ever blame Tup for his own issues. He let out a small exhale, looking away again. “Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence that we both had the same dream.” Dogma muttered, breath slowing as he was reassured by Tup’s presence.

“I heard Kix call it the anniversary effect one time, maybe a month after the campaign. Besides, we’re closer than most vode; it’s not too surprising that we’d share dreams.” Tup gave him a small smile, this one reaching his eyes a little more than the last one.

Leaning back against the wall, Tup huffed to himself as he felt his stomach grumble lightly. He hadn’t been very hungry at dinner that night, with the mess hall unusually quiet. Glancing back at Dogma, he asked, “Have you eaten since training, Dogma? Didn’t see you at late-meal tonight.” 

Dogma hesitated for a beat longer than he should have, knowing he’d been caught. “Wasn’t hungry… why?”

“Well, I was heading to the mess hall before we ran into each other. Do you want to come with me? We could both use a midnight snack. Besides, it’d be nice to not be alone… unless you were planning on going back to bed?” He gave Dogma a slightly smug look, knowing full well that neither of them would be sleeping anytime soon. 

A look of mild annoyance made its way onto Dogma’s face, knowing he was caught. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll go with you. Just because I have nothing better to do. And you’re right, a snack wouldn’t hurt.”

Tup grinned, starting to stand up before offering a hand to Dogma, which he hesitantly accepted. “You know, I think there’s still some ice cream in the stasis freezer. Perfect for a midnight snack– or a 0200 snack, I guess.” He clarified as Dogma opened his mouth, about to correct him on the time. 

After a moment he swings his feet over the side of the bunk, uncaring at the sting of cold metal against his soles. The mattress creaks as he bends down and palms the back of his neck, and a moment later there is an answering groan in the frame, before another hand settles on his shoulder.

“Jess?” Kix croaks, still half-asleep and pliant. Jesse can’t help the way he recoils from the touch, and the hand stills, then retreats.

The silence lingers just a moment too long before he hears the rustle of Kix’s blanket.

“You alright?” Kix asks, somewhere between wary and hopeful.

Jesse hates disappointing him, but if he looks up he thinks he’ll vomit. 

He stands instead, the movement too jerky to be casual, and feels his brother shrink back into his bunk, the air between them suddenly going cold. Jesse grits his teeth so hard they ache, balling his hands at his sides. The anticipation sinks in knife-sharp, and he finds he can’t cope with that anymore either, can’t stand the way it makes his skin crawl. 

He nods, stiffly, lying with every bone in his body.

Kix has never run from a fight in his life, but he lets Jesse run from this. 

“Okay, vod,” he whispers instead, his voice all small and fractured and wrong. “You know I’m here if you need me.”

They haven’t talked about the dreams, but Jesse suspects Kix knows what he sees. He’s always been good like that, always just one step ahead, but it hasn’t helped them breach this chasm, can’t stop them from staring at each other from opposite ends of a gun. 

It doesn’t matter, in the end, that his brothers never took the shot. They thought about it. Somehow, that shapes up to near enough the same thing.

He leaves the barracks, and doesn’t look back.

Fives is already by the window when he reaches the refectory, a lone solid figure in the pooling dark. He’s dragged a bench up to the glass and tucked his knees up to his chest, the lights of passing Coruscanti traffic lighting up his hollow eyes. He doesn’t look like he’s slept - maybe that was the right idea.

He doesn’t say anything when Jesse sits, just swings his legs down and lifts one arm, a question and an answer all at once. Yes, Jesse answers with his touch. He leans in, slinging his own arm around Fives’ waist. You too?

He doesn’t really have to ask. After Umbara, he knows they’re both trapped in the same moment. 

They fidget for a moment, then settle.

The night drags on.

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