#repcommweek2022

———

Her recently acquired buir had begrudgingly agreed with Kal Skirata when he’d mentioned that the bare expanse of flesh from the base of her neck down to the dimples at the small of her back would thoroughly distract anyone from looking anywhere else. He didn’t have to like it, though.

While Walon had continued to play any genuine feelings of her being volunteered close to his chest, he was having a rather un-Vau like difficulty hiding the slight twitch of his right eye at the mention of the auction, or the tightening of his jaw as he spoke of the logistics with Kal. The little merc had no small delight in Walon’s discomfort. Di’kut .

He’d done a far better job than either Sev or Scorch, the former whose scowl was threatening to become more permanent each time Jessa’s involvement was spoken of, and the latter who openly opposed it at every opportunity. Of course, he had other ways of letting his distaste of the matter be known.

She’d endured long days of his tutelage and, while not as physical as what he’d put his sons through, it had been taxing on her still-healing body. As he'd known, she was an apt pupil, quickly memorizing his lists of imperial courtesies and customs as well as the names and faces of the more prevalent crime syndicates likely to be in attendance. With a glance she could now tell ranking officers from one another by the quick glance of a patch on the arm. She could recite the names of each syndicate that functioned within their corner of the galaxy and who each crime family's major players were (and to stay away from them).  She would be able to assist in intelligence collection, even if only on a very limited level.

Still, he maintained a level of uncertainty about the whole mission. Sev and Scorch would doubtless be fine.  But if something happened to his daughter… well. He wondered silently if the outcome would be worth the risk. 

—----

“This is fun, right?” Scorch checks his DH-17 over for a second time. The armory is quiet, devoid of the noise and action of the rest of Kyrimorut. 

The click, click, click of Sev loading and unloading, checking and confirming his verpine is good to go, breaks the silence. How many times had they done this routine?  Some days, Scorch had a hard time recollecting exactly at what age the first blaster had been placed in his tiny hands.

“I mean, this is what we do. More fun than a bug zapper on Geonosis, right?” The silence eats at him so he fills it with whatever he can. They’d been doing it since decant.

Sev sighs irritably, the painted exterior of his buyce giving nothing away, but Scorch doesn’t need to see his brother's face to know. His blaster is laid across the nearest worktop, rattling softly as he sits back and pulls out the pair of knives Parja has slipped him the evening before. He turns the blades over, a hunter's eye assessing the set. Scorch eyes the pair as well, mismatched, but forged from the same piece of beskar. 

“What are you getting at?” Sev’s voice is a low rasp.

What was he getting at? This is what they were made for. Controlling the chaos, wrangling it into what they wanted it to be, was something Scorch lived for. So why was his internal alarm blaring?  “I just…. does something feel wrong-“

“I’m pissed she’s going too.”

And just like that, it was out in the open.

Ok. Scorch blinks. Good to know he wasn’t alone. The she in question was off somewhere being primped and prodded, made to look like the sexy spy of his dreams… focus Scorch . She’d be going through her thousandth brief like a cadet being prepped for their first mission. 

Jessa had been adamant the two Vau adiike stay far away from her. Her narrowed eyes and earlier rebuke of Scorch’s concern had put a fine point on the demand. His gloved hand rubs over the ka’rta beskar in the center of his chest as if to remove the lingering sting from her finger jabbing at it. 

Whatever. She could be mad. She could pretend all she wanted. Jessa wasn’t a soldier. She wasn’t a Mandalorian. The training she had was laughable and far below the level that would have had any of Delta meeting their maker (most literally) in a Kaminoan lab. She was a distraction at best, a liability at worst, and Scorch found it laughable that he was the only one to openly voice what a kriffing bad idea the whole thing was.

He’d watched, swallowing his snark like bad Coruscanti street food as Kal Skirata had sat with Wal’buir and Jessa the week before and laid out the coming op. It was the first he’d even heard of it, and that alone set him on edge. Jessa’s reaction only served to make that raw nerve of anxiety even worse. 

She hadn’t paused to think about what was being asked of her. She’d agreed before Skirata had even finished his spiel. His buir had been less than enthusiastic if Mird’s soft chirps and nudging of his hand under the table had been anything to go by, but he hadn’t stopped her and he hadn’t so much as tried to dissuade her. Scorch watched in stunned silence as Kal Skirata, the old chakaar himself, had weedled exactly what he wanted from her. Of course he and Sev were in- the promise of an op more than either was willing to pass up, and the cause was good- so there was no reason to miss out on the fun. Their brothers in arms deserved more than being sold off as spare parts after being pawns for first the Galactic Republic and then the Empire. 

Jessa though, she didn’t need to fulfill any of that. She didn’t need to be anywhere they couldn’t keep her safe, anywhere that risked her being reclaimed by the mining guild. His buir had silenced him with a single look before he could speak, but that hadn’t meant that he’d not used the week since to make his opinion be known at every opportunity.

“I don’t like that she’s been roped into this” Sev mumbles.

His brother’s possessiveness mirrors his own as a grim smile pulls at his lips. At least they were in this together. Now was not the time to fall apart.

Sev grunts his acknowledgment to his brother’s unspoken words. The pair of blades shine in the light. Sev flips one in his hand, the small grip of the custom weapon disappearing in his grasp.

They were going to court her properly, and make their intentions known. Scorch had told Laseema as much, and the twi’lek had given him a hard look. Jessa had told her she wouldn’t choose, and Laseema had been clear any attempt at doing so wouldn’t end in their favor. They had no intention of making her decide one or the other. It was a package deal. All or nothing.

He just hoped they could all handle it.

————

It was far simpler to admire the dress she’d been herded into by the Skirata matriarch than it was to worry about the shabla mess she’d volunteered herself for.

She tries weakly to blame the twist in her stomach on breakfast. But that wasn’t really the issue at hand, was it? This was a mission, a rescue mission. To an Imperial held moon. No, she can’t blame the food she’d had no appetite for. The heavy Mando-favored meal Laseema had thrown together (all full of cured meats and eggs fried in roba lard) had been wholly unappetizing. She’d only picked at her plate, much to Sev and Scorch’s audible displeasure.

”You’re not eating” Sev’s raspy voice pulls her from her thoughts. A glance at her plate confirms that she’s only managed to herd its contents from one edge to the other. She glances at him from the corner of her eye. He and Scorch are flanking her. Their presence, usually a reassuring safety net, was feeling anything but. They’d made their opinions known over and over.

Those opinions meant far too much to make any of this easy on her and they either didn’t know or didn’t care.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter, Princess. Need to keep the calories coming.”

To her right Scorch sets down his fork and knife and turns his head toward her. She can feel his eyes and it’s only a matter of time til she hears-

“She’s not eating?”

Sev gestures subtly. She can feel Scorch’s eyes on her. She fights the temptation to look.

“There’s a pack of feral adiik’e that’ll do the job for you If you don’t watch out.” He’s joking, but his humor is strained. The talk around them has gone silent. Her lips press together in a grim line as she glares into the depths of her pile of eggs.

“Jessa,” he’s insistent, going stern in a way that brings the hackles up on her neck. He needed to let her be, but he was Scorch and he’d never let anything be in his life. Her irritation mounted. “It’s important. You need the calories. You-”

“I’m not a child, and I don’t need you to be my boss.” She lashes out, her finger finding the center of his chest to emphasize her point followed with a glare that’d freeze a tauntaun in its tracks. 

She’s never rounded on him like that and it shows in the way he fails to hide his flinch. He hadn’t expected it, and he took it with all the grace of a kicked puppy. It lasts a moment before those big brown eyes narrow.

“You’re going to be a liability. You're going to get someone killed.” He pushes away from the table roughly.

The breath she’d been taking freezes in her lungs, a sharp pain at her heart. She follows his retreating form. Walon’s eyes lock with hers as Sev’s steadying presence disappears to follow his brother. Her buir arches an aristocratic brow in her direction. 

And now she’s nauseous.

Her fingers tease at the edges of the gown’s velvety slit on her thigh. She remembers the tension that was obvious in Scorch’s shoulders and the way Sev had hovered like a lethal shadow when she’d shown them her choice earlier in the week. Kal was present and clapped once, doling out gentle coaxing praise. Walon, her buir, had said nothing, giving her only a nod. 

“Jessa? Are you ok?” Bes’ smooth voice helps her refocus.

She offers a soft nod, ignoring the questions that lingered in her eyes. The older woman plucked a brush from the small jar on the counter and casually perused the available makeup.

“Do something smokey. That dress screams for it.” Bes rolls her eyes at Parja’s demand but pulls a dark palette from the stack. Laseema smiles from her spot lounging in the corner.

“It’s been a while since I’ve played around with this stuff. I hope you don’t mind?” 

Jessa didn’t. It had been a long time since she’d worn makeup. It had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it was the one she’d found herself in.

Her eyes flutter shut. The brush is feather soft as Bes applies layer upon layer of shadow. She tries not to think about the look on Scorch’s face. There had been betrayal in those warm eyes. He had not deserved that from her, but neither had she deserved the sharp words that had come after.

“Ignore it Jes’ika. There’s too much riding on this to be stuck in your own head.” Laseema’s soft voice breaks through her dark cloud of spiraling thoughts. She was right. There was too much at stake to allow her own self doubt to lead her to ruin.

“He’s a big boy and he’ll get over it.” Bes adds. “You’ve only wounded his ego a little. They all seem to think they know best at one time or another.” Bes steps back and Jessa opens her eyes to look up at the older woman. Her lips pull into a sly smile as she adds conspiratorially, ‘You’ve met my riddur .’

The women all laugh, but the weight of what’s to come remains.

———

It feels like old times in a way Sev haven't felt since before Kasshyk. The recently acquired pleasure cruiser and the tactically acquired Skirata gunship are humming quietly, their respective pilots beginning start up procedures. Jessa would be with Mereel in the cruiser, keeping up the facade of a wealthy buyer and her bodyguard, while he and Scorch would join Corr, Atin, and a recently returned Kom’rk in the gunship, staying below the radar and transporting liberated troopers. 

It sounded easy enough when they’d run through it, but Sev has seen too much to believe in easy. There were too many people and too many working parts to make him feel comfortable. He pats his pocket and feels the twin beskar blades seated firmly in place. 

“On your six.” Scorch warns a moment before he’s clapping his hand on his brothers back, “ready to help a few vod’e with their military discharge?’

Sev grunts. Scorch was playing like he didn’t have his feelings hurt. He was being too… him. Which was far more Scorch then he could handle today. When breakfast had gone to osik he’d been momentarily surprised, but then he realized it had been brewing all week. He hadn’t stepped in to check Scorch, and part of this was his fault. He had never been the balance point of the squad- that had always been Fixer- and he’d done a garbage job of stepping into that position.

“We should make this right before we go.” 

Scorch raises a brow, but thankfully says nothing.

“I’m giving them to her before we do this.”

He waits for Scorch to ask what he was giving or to ask why now, why change the plan, but he doesn’t- because for as different as they were, they were brothers, and he always seemed to know what Sev was thinking. This couldn’t be left on a bad note, and she needed to know what they wanted. He needed her to know.

“Ok”

Sev’s head tips to the side. “Ok? No argument?”

“Nope. Just tear the bacta patch off. It can’t get any worse, right?” Scorch isn’t happy. He doesn’t smile. He isn’t joking around. He’s resigned, and Sev realizes that it’s bothering him nearly as much as the incident with their princess earlier.

A quick nod is all he gets in before there’s a shout for his vod , and the demolitions expert is slipping on his buy’ce and moving away. Sev watches him grab a duffle of ordinance off of a crate and walk toward a waiting Kom’rk. The Null pats his back as he hits the ramp. The soft whine of a speeder's engine can barely be heard above the din of the larger ships’. Sev watches. He can see his buir at the controls. He imagines he can feel his glowering glare burning a whole in him through the matte black of Vau’s buy’ce . Jessa’s there two. She’s bundled up in a thick coat to keep the chill of the wind at bay. Her hair’s covered in a scarf because… women. It’s his best guess.

Nearly a year he spent on Kasshyk, hiding from the terrifying local fauna and taking his licks from Trandoshan slavers, but that seems like a walk in the park compared to what he’s about to do. He feels more prepared to take a trando whip than to present his- their- intent.

Walon pulls to a stop between the two prepping ships. Sev watches as he gets out and steps around to help Jessa out, offering her a hand as she balances in spindly heels that make her legs -so much leg- look amazing.

Fek, he wasn’t ready for this. He fights the urge to unholster the blaster at his hip and click through the settings.

Scorch should be here. He should talk. This was wildly out of Sev’s scope.

Jessa catches him staring. Her gaze holds his steadily for a long moment before her eyes flick around. She was looking for his vod too, then. Her expression falters when she can’t find him. Sev tips his head toward an empty space near the front of the gunship.  His buir catches his eye and gives him a cool nod as she strides toward him. He wants to throw up.

The only reality is action . His dear old buir had said it back on Mygeeto in the bowels of the Merchant Bank. It had stuck with him like much of his former Sargeant’s training had. Now was a time for action. He has a feeling now that the old man wanted a specific action from him. He glances over his shoulder as he heads toward his target. He was being eyed with all the interest of a bug under a magnifying glass. Or maybe he wasn’t.

Vau gives him a final look and turns to talk to the two null ARCs present. Must have been his imagination. Or maybe it was that perpetual discomfort the thought of letting down the former Cuy’val Dar sergeant left in the pit of his stomach.

“Sev.” Jessa’s voice is flat as she greets him. That familiar twist in his gut gets worse. Turns out he didn’t like her disappointment either. Go fekking figure.

‘Princess. You look good.’ She scoffs at him, arms moving to cross over her chest.

‘Don’t do that to me. Don’t try- I don’t know, to do whatever it is you’re doing.’

What he was doing- trying to do- was set up a future, and he’d rather be facing down a Fett-damned lizard. At least with a Transdoshan he knew where he stood. He had a skill set to deal with that. He reaches in his pocket, feels the butter-soft leather of the knife sheaths. He’d taken point on this, Scorch trusting him with meeting their objective. 

Probably not either of their brightest moments.

“Listen. I’ve got- we’ve got-” he clarifies quietly as the words evade him. Jessa stares at him.  At least there was curiosity peeking through the cold, very Vau-like look she was attempting.

“Here.” He’s pulling the set out and holding them bunched in a hand. “These are for you.”

When she hesitates, he grabs her hand, his gloved fingers encasing her smaller ones and presses the pair into her grasp. She falters for a moment, nearly drops them, then yanks away from him.  Sev steps back as she looks down.

“From us,” he rasps. “Had ‘em made from the one I took.”

Jessa slips the first from its sheath. Her fingers trail along the edge of the blade. It’s the standard dagger, sized to fit her use over his own preferences. The bevel on each side shines as the lights of the ships flash. She glances up at him with an unreadable expression before looking back down to inspect it further. He fights the urge to shift in place as she grips the handle that’s been custom made to fit to her grip.

‘It’ll fit in your boot.’ His gaze travels up from her heel to the hem of her dress where the slit opens to show him a warm, soft thigh. ‘Or on your leg.’

She gives a quick nod before resheathing it. She bobbles the daggers and manages to pull the other out. It’s the smaller of the two, the sheath delicately detailed with swirls of wild flowers tooled into the leather. ‘For your arm… maybe your wrist.’ It’s a small push dagger, its t-handle crafted to be part of the design. Parja had gone above and beyond, and it shows. A damn hunting strill is etched into the grip. His heart thrums in his chest as she slips the neck of the handle between her second and third fingers and grips it gently. When she looks up, her eyes have lost their cool indifference. Instead, it’s been replaced with something he doesn’t know how to read.

“They’re beautiful, Sev.” Her voice barely rises above the low growl of the engines.

“Only the best for our girl.” His low voice cracks like he’s a damn seventh cycle cadet. A quick flash of the tip of her tongue moistening plush red lips, and his brain stutters and his cod tightens. There’s something else he’s supposed to be telling her about them, but his brain has gone smooth and blank.

“Help me put it on?”

Sev nods and steps into her space. Jessa raises her left hand, shakes back the fabric of the sleeve. With a sniper's steady hands Sev takes the push dagger and sheath from her and secures them over the delicate delicate bones of her wrist.  

He could crush it in his grip, an intrusive thought that’s entirely unwelcome. 

She admires the way it looks. Her finger traces the tooled designs.

“Looks good, Princess.”

“Sev, I-”

“WHEELS UP IN FIVE,” Mereel’s booming voice cuts off whatever she’d opened her mouth to say. Sev could gut him. Use one of Jessa’s new blades and find the sweet spot between beskar plating. Let him exsanguinate on the tarmac…

“We’ll talk about it when we get back, ok?”

All he can do is nod as she tips her chin up. Her lips brush his cheek just above the hard line of his jaw.

“Tell Scorch… tell him I said good luck, ok?”

He watches her turn to catch up with Mereel’s retreating form and it hits him exactly what he forgot to tell her.

————————

Jessa slips into the co-pilot's seat. The soft leather rubs between her thighs from her newly fastened knife sheath. It had been tricky doing it in the bathroom and positioning it so her dressing didn’t give it away but she’d managed. The pair of daggers on her body eases some of the nerves that had been thrashing her stomach since waking this morning. Mereel glances at her as she slips the push dagger from its spot on her wrist, practicing the movement, slipping it into a firm hold.

“New toys?”

“Sev and Scorch gave it to me. Another one, too.”

Mereel’s posture stiffens, “They gave you weapons? They tell you why?”

“Yeah, I guess they figured it’d be good to have tonight. In case, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

She doesn’t get a chance to pry further at the line of questioning. The small personal shuttle makes a soft banking curve as the lights of the Imperial outpost at  Bral Choruk comes into view.

“Private craft 2-5-6-5-3-0-niner requesting permission to land.” Mereel calls in the clearance code they’d received as part of their invitation. He sounds bored but his body language is anything but- he’s alert with both hands on the controls. 

Jessa listens intently for any sign that they’d been had. Unlike the Duke , the shuttle they’d acquired was built for the personal play and pleasure of the elite, and as such was lacking (by Mandalorian standards) in weaponry. A small pair of guns was nothing when it came to matching the might of the Empire. The turrets rising from all corners of the outpost only serve as a reminder that they were greatly outgunned should itchy trigger fingers prevail.

A quick glance shows Mereel’s attention fully focused on the comms board. The seconds stretch.  Glancing at Jessa, Mereel offers a strained smile. It does little to ease the ball of nerves in her stomach.

“I used to know vod’e who would throw up before every mission. You’re welcome to use the fresher.”

Jessa’s back straightens, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” Her voice is stiff.

The commando opens his mouth to say something but the crackle and subsequent clearance from the comms interrupts.

“ Private craft please make way for docking hub B and welcome to Bral Choruk .’

You’ll have nerves. Walon Vau’s words play in her head as if cued up by the sharp uptake in her own heart rate. You’ll use those to sharpen your focus and complete the task you’ve been set.’ Her building anxiety was supposed to be a boon, not a bane.

The shuttle settles gently into the dock, and the sound of the magna-locks clicking into place along the hull echoes through the ship.

Mereel clears his throat and Jessa turns. He’s in full armor, his colors changed by a quick, crisp coat of paint. He gives her a grin as he slips his buyce into place. He was an intimidating mountain of a man before the armor, but with it on… well,  she was glad they were on the same side.

“Ma’am,” he teases, holding a hand out. “You ready to get to work?”

------------------

Mando’a Translation-

Riddur-spouse/husband/wife

Osik- dung (impolite term. Think ‘shit’)

Buir- parent

shabla: screwed up

Adiike: children

vod: comrade/brother/sister

vod'e: multiple of above

di'kut: idiot, useless, waste of space

chakaar: corpse robber,thief, Petty criminal

Text exchange between IC-1109 Niner and IC-1136 Darman, approximately 2200 on the day of IC-4447 Ennen’s death:

IC-1109: Come back in one piece, will you?

IC-1136: fff Niner nu draar. Im leaving somethingg here.

IC-1109: are you drunk, mir’sheb?

IC-1136: I alrrady left sth here

IC-1109: what are you on about?

IC-1136: Joint op.. Quibbuus. Theres aroom I cant forget about.

IC-1109: … that’s a different place.

IC-1136: same place in my shabla heaD.

IC-1109: come back and tell me about it.

IC-1136: fevkin Ennen,,, vodd.d What a shabla dikut. I ccclda done th sAME THING.

IC-1109: you didn’t.

IC-1136: i hd you.]

...

“Sir, I apologize for what I’m about to say. IC-4447 is dead.”

Roly Melusar did not react. Niner may as well have said he’d submitted his squad’s annual performance evaluations. “How did he die?”

Melusar looked right at Niner, holding eye contact for a moment that ticked by too slowly. His tone was even, but Niner suspected the question was rhetorical.

“Suicide. We … we found him. He’s been examined by medical and taken to the morgue. You’ll have the police report in a couple of hours.” 

Niner had never had to report a squadmate’s death before, but there was a first time for everything. Blaster bolt to the temple. His own weapon. We were just outside when it happened — Dar was inside the ‘fresher. 

Yes, you can ask him. Dar, the MPs need to take your account. No, we didn’t touch anything. 

Melusar rose from where he sat behind his desk. He leaned over the polished surface, supporting his weight on his fingertips. He nodded once, then walked around the desk. “How’s Forty taking it?”

The new squad name went in one ear and out the other. Niner had gotten used to Omega, and he'd get used to Forty, too. 

But he wouldn't get used to the absence of Fi and Atin.

Darman wasn’t taking Ennen's loss well. He’d disappeared off base by himself. He'd always been the type to process things alone, but still, for a commando, isolation wasn't a good sign. 

Rede seemed shocked. Niner could only hope he'd eventually adapt to this tragedy as well as he had to everything else he'd been put through so far. 

“Hard, sir. But we’ll handle it.”

“You always do. Take the next couple of days to yourselves. Don’t worry about the details for now … we’ll find a replacement when you’re ready.”

Niner had come to expect fairness and genuine support from their commander, but all the warm words in the world didn’t make the situation any easier. He felt hollow and robotic. “Thank you, Sir. One other request – Ennen was Corellian. He would have wanted a cremation.”

“Yes of course. Once I receive the formal report we’ll proceed with those arrangements. That won’t be the end of it, unfortunately. We’ll have to endure an investigation – don’t take it personally. Investigation is routine when something like this happens."

The only thing Niner had ever taken personally was his squad’s welfare and performance. He took a breath and clenched his jaw tightly.

"I don’t have to tell you to keep your squad within recall distance.”

“No Sir.”  

“Take care of yourselves, Sergeant. I’ll contact you when I have an update."

Niner saluted, about-faced, and strode out of the office. He’d find Rede and they’d walk the base, kicking up dust and pretending to be doing something other than trying to forget about Ennen.

…

Laundry. Rede stared at Ennen’s pile of hand-me-downs — worn blacks, fatigues, a few civvie shirts and pants. “What will happen to them?” Rede asked suddenly, toeing a red T-shirt. Rede hadn’t been through this before – the coming home to a barracks room and finding nothing but items which had nowhere to belong. Or the rote solemnity of tasks performed to force the emptiness into a structure. Filling the time so you’d make it to tomorrow. Senior leadership misunderstood how soldiers worked, Niner thought. All free time ever did was remind you where you’d gone wrong. 

If they’d been a regular infantry unit, service droids would have cleaned up all evidence that Ennen had ever existed. But commando squads took care of their own – increased autonomy meant self sufficiency. Not a steep price to pay when it meant you could hold on to those you’d lost.

They divided up Ennen’s clothing between them wordlessly. Rede took the civvies and folded them, lingering reverently over his footlocker as if the precision of the folds would make things right. Maybe they wouldn’t, but Rede would have his first pair of civvies out of it. There were plenty more jarring things than seeing a vod in a dead man’s clothes, Niner told himself. That’s how things were done in the squads.

Niner took Ennen’s fatigues for himself and left the backup bodysuit on Darman’s bunk. Dar needed a new one, but superstition dictated wearing your first one until it became more of a hazard to wear it than replace it. Dar's blacks were Bry’s old pair.

Niner rubbed his forehead wearily and beckoned Rede out the door. “That’s sorted. Let’s eat.”

The sun was setting behind the spacescrapers, casting a forest of cool shadows over Core Square. It had been a hot day. The ferrocrete blacktop had begun to release its absorbed sunlight, warming their boots as they walked, like shadows themselves in dark imperial armor. The katarn, an effective insulator, kept them cool enough, and their bodysuits did an adequate job of adapting to body temperature. Niner could feel his sweat being wicked away even as his brow furrowed in worry over Darman’s radio silence. He focused on Rede’s profile as they walked. Under his bucket, Niner knew Rede’s face still looked smooth and youthful. His eyes, normally expressive, sat high and deep under his brow bone. No eye bags, no lines yet, no gray hair. Age would come for Rede, too, but Niner had somehow hoped that he would be spared just a few months longer.

The few years between Rede and the older commandos were enough that Niner noticed. Seeing Rede was like seeing himself as he thought he was, and then realizing he was not that younger man anymore. A few years did a lot to a clone – some of it visible, but most of it not. 

…

Lights out had come and gone, and Darman stumbled into the bedroom, a darker shape in a dark room, briefly illuminated by light filtering in from the hallway. He blundered into the bunk he shared with Niner and put one foot on the ladder’s middle rung. Niner, up to his chin in covers, reached out and grabbed his calf. “Hey. Down here. Rede’s up top.”

“Whaa?”

“I offered,” Niner explained in a hoarse whisper.

“‘Course,” Darman agreed, but he groaned, unstuck his foot from the ladder, and crawled heavily onto the narrow mattress next to Niner, still booted and clothed. Niner turned towards the wall, taking up as little space as possible. “Sorry.” 

He didn’t mind that Darman had to scoot in close to him, or that he rested his hot forehead between Niner’s shoulder blades, huffing as he settled down. Rede snored above them, a loud rattle that drowned out background sounds of sky traffic and the laundry room down the hall. They could have an entire conversation without him hearing.

“Oh fuu, m’ clothes,'' Dar slurred suddenly, and Niner caught a whiff of beer on his breath. Darman sat up, thunking his head on the bunk above. Rede snored on, undisturbed, and Darman continued thrashing and huffing as he tried to pull his shirt off.

“Help me, vod’ika.”

Niner reached blindly for his brother, bumping into bare skin and grabbing onto what he realized was Darman’s back. He slid his hand up, wiggling his fingers experimentally where the edge of Darman’s shirt cut into skin. It had gotten stuck around his lats. “How did you stuff yourself into this?” He asked helpfully.

Darman sighed. “It fit fine earlier. Just get it off me.”

The CSF Social Club, known for its loaded fries, had obviously bloated him on both sodium and booze. 

Niner had to roll over and straddle him from the front, edging his fingers in deeper, before he finally worked Darman’s shirt up and over his head.

“Di’kut,” Niner murmured, pushing him back down onto the bed. He rolled off Darman's lap and settled onto his side again, feeling better about everything with Darman close. He closed his eyes, intent on falling asleep. Dar's chest rose and fell against his back, but he kept moving and twitching, bumping Niner’s legs with his knees.

Niner sighed patiently and focused on the sound of Rede’s snoring. He was interrupted again a moment later by a metallic jingle right behind him. It had to be Darman’s belt buckle. Niner turned, waiting for his eyes to re-adjust to the dark again. He could just make out Darman’s hands fumbling with his belt and then with something else between his legs. “What. What are you doing?”

Dar hissed in frustration, palming himself, yanking on his pants. “Gotta take care of this.” 

This turned out to be his half-hard cock, which was nestled in his open fly. Niner watched, frozen, as his hand dipped into his pants and moved up and down a few times. Then Darman stopped, his face turned toward Niner’s in the dark. Niner swallowed. A brother taking care of himself in the same room wasn’t unusual, but Omega Squad had always given their sergeant a respectful amount of distance when it happened.

Darman seemed to have forgotten this unspoken etiquette, or maybe their relationship had evolved enough that he felt it no longer applied. “Could you … could I – I mean –” he stuttered, face tipped toward his dick, which peeked out of his fist. 

Niner’s mouth dropped open. He probably misses Etain, and I’m the best he’s got. “I don’t think –”

“Fine. Forget I asked.”

Darman sounded tired now, and resolute, and vulnerable in a way Niner had not heard since before …

“You want … me?” As soon as the words left his lips, Niner’s chest began to pound. He’d never been propositioned before. He couldn’t even say where Darman would fall on a list of possible partners, because he didn’t think he had a list. Everyone he met was more or less the same to him – just people, and they all had a job to do. 

“Your hand, maybe?” 

This wasn’t part of the job. Or at least it hadn’t been until now. 

“I don’t know, Dar,” he said, as gently as he could. “I’m probably not the best person to ask.” 

Darman growled, frustrated, and his hand snapped up and down, as if he were trying to yank the stiffness out of his erection. Then he lay down on his side behind Niner, his forehead warm and solid against his back again. Niner sighed. Darman hadn’t pulled his pants back up, which meant the door of opportunity was still open, and all he could think about now was how Dar was lying there behind him with an abandoned boner. 

Niner didn’t know what to do. “I’ll sleep on the floor,” he muttered. He grabbed a blanket, rolling onto his elbow to sit up.

“Lay down,” Darman snapped in a loud whisper. “‘M not that drunk anymore. I know what I’m doing.”

Niner wasn’t convinced. It was difficult to tell which Darman he was dealing with. Was this grieving Dar or couldn’t-care-less Dar? But Niner lay down again, for reasons beyond rationality. They breathed quietly for a minute, each with his own thoughts, and then Niner felt Darman shuffle closer and rock into his backside. He was still hard. And his hand pinned Niner’s hip firmly against his own.

“Udesi, vod,” Niner bit out, but a little shiver crawled up his spine. Something was happening. Maybe he’d never had a list before because no one had ever come quite this close. And Darman wasn’t anyone. He wasn’t just one of his brothers anymore – or even just one of his closest brothers. After Shinarcan Bridge something had changed. The playing field had leveled out in a way that made him want to respond to Dar’s insistent advances. 

Niner reached back, not knowing exactly what he meant to do, and found Darman’s head. He pulled Dar in close, turning to face him, caught by the need to keep him where he was.

“Let go of me, then,” Darman breathed, fanning Niner’s neck with warm air. 

Niner didn’t move.

“You want this, don’t you.”

Niner shuddered, and Darman felt it, because he relaxed, face buried in Niner’s neck. “Please.”

Of all the days, of all the times, Dar.

Darman’s lips on his neck made everything feel fuzzy. He didn't want to let go. So he held on, folding Darman close, breathing deeply against him. Warm little curls of desire unwound as Darman's hips arched into him again, and before he knew it he was letting Darman hump his thigh, and then his open hand; all he had to do was close his fingers.

He had his vod’s cock in his hand on the same day he’d lost another one to his own demons.

All our demons.

Dar’s gentle huffing noises turned tight and desperate as Niner worked him. Then they went ragged and wet with tears as he came, effortlessly, into Niner’s hand. 

Rede hadn’t stopped snoring. Vor entye Manda. He’d seen enough for one day.

Darman drifted off to sleep, and Niner didn’t move for the fresher until he was sure he wouldn’t wake.