#boring medical jargon

[transtalesofdoom]

Rant about the ICD-10 and nonbinary trans identities

This one's actually just build-up to another one, but it makes me very mad, so.

What's an ICD? ICD is short for "International Statistical Classification of Diseases and Related Health Problems", which is an absolute mouthful. It's basically a catalog of diseases that gets maintained by the WHO and occasionally updated into new versions. The most recent one is the ICD-11 that was published in 2022. It is five times the size of the ICD-10, which was published in 1994. Quite a bit happened in those 28 years, you know?

For this post, the relevant sections are obviously the one regarding trans health. So let's look at them:

The ICD-10 defines "Transsexualism" as

"A desire to live and be accepted as a member of the opposite sex, usually accompanied by a sense of discomfort with, or inappropriateness of, one's anatomic sex, and a wish to have surgery and hormonal treatment to make one's body as congruent as possible with one's preferred sex."

It's categorized under "Mental and personality disorders". Such fun!

The ICD-11 now calls it "Gender incongruence" and defines it as such:

"Gender incongruence is characterised by a marked and persistent incongruence between an individual’s experienced gender and the assigned sex. Gender variant behaviour and preferences alone are not a basis for assigning the diagnoses in this group."

I don't know why it's british, and I don't care. There's a further distinction between prepubescent patients and those who have entered puberty and above. It's a bit longer and I promise it's the last stupid medical paragraph in this.

"Gender Incongruence of Adolescence and Adulthood is characterised by a marked and persistent incongruence between an individual’s experienced gender and the assigned sex, which often leads to a desire to ‘transition’, in order to live and be accepted as a person of the experienced gender, through hormonal treatment, surgery or other health care services to make the individual’s body align, as much as desired and to the extent possible, with the experienced gender. The diagnosis cannot be assigned prior the onset of puberty. Gender variant behaviour and preferences alone are not a basis for assigning the diagnosis."

Thats a lotta words. TLDR: "Person does not identify with assigned sex, likely wishes to transition to the experienced gender." Also important to note: Instead of a Mental Disorder, it's now categorized as a "Condition related to sexual health". Great!

Why is it not great? Because the ICD-11 is not currently in active use. The WHO expects a transitional period of 5 years or longer for countries to implement this. The US, for example, is aiming for an implementation in 2025, but it could extend to 2027 depending on required modifications. Non-english countries, like mine, also require time to translate the thing. Until implementation is complete, a majority of doctors are still trained to use the ICD-10. Health insurance companies also are not required to adopt definitions from the ICD-11 during the transitional period.

By the way, did you spot it? It's a small, but important difference: "the opposite sex" (ICD-10) vs "the experienced gender" (ICD-11). That's right, the current system only acknowledges binary trans people! Good for them, awful for me!

Now, of course there will be doctors who know better and acknowledge nonbinary identities, but under this current catalog, they do not have to. Neither does your health insurance. So if I, who is decidedly not of the binary variety, want health care and I want my insurance to cover it (just to stress again: I am not in the US), my best bet is to lie.

If I want trans healthcare, instead of getting a kind that is best suited for me and my identity, I should tell my health care providers a fabricated story about how very binary my transness is.

You realize what that is, right? It's another gender identity being assigned to me that doesn't match my own. Isn't that ironic?

But hey, only three more years until we get it implemented. Maybe.

[ickadori]

++ 𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

[summary] compared to zayne’s colleague’s accomplishments, as well as his own, you’re feeling sorely unequipped to stand by his side at the banquet.

[cws] fem reader -> hunter reader. bit suggestive at the end, but otherwise sfw. unedited.

You were completely out of your element.

The banquet that you had accompanied Zayne to was everything you thought it was going to be: Prestigious, elite, and entirely out of your league.

Zayne had assured you that you looked the part, and you supposed you did with the getup he had helped you pick out. A beautiful dress that clung to you like a second skin, accentuating all your good points and dolling up your bad ones (Zayne always told you that you had no bad points, and you always told him to get his glasses prescription doublechecked). Your hair was done nicely, tucked neatly with pins that you had nearly been too scared to use in fear of damaging them. A diamond necklace, gifted from none other than Zayne on Valentines night, rested against your skin with a matching set of earrings.

Your heels were from a designer whose name you had failed to properly pronounce repeatedly, and they were just as beautiful as the dress, the perfect color and style to tie the look together nicely.

You looked the part alright, but you felt nothing of the sort. Your nerves had been churning in your stomach the moment you two made it to the venue, and that churning had kicked into tenfold with each introduction.

You met esteemed doctors who you had seen in news articles dozens of times to celebrate their accomplishments, professors that taught at universities you couldn’t even dream of getting into, classmates that screamed money and class with their dazzling white smiles, sparkling jewelry, and bumptious way of speaking.

And they met you, a hunter who had a knack for getting herself injured on the job and making her boyfriend’s stress load even heavier.

You hadn’t gone to college, nor had you held any other job besides being a hunter. You had known what you wanted to do from an early age, and the moment you had turned old enough to join the Hunters Association you ran off to take your test and get the process started. You were proud to be a Hunter and you loved your job for the most part, but standing here now in a room filled with people far more accomplished than you in every way imaginable, you felt…inadequate.

You solemnly sip at your champagne flute as you stand by Zayne’s side, his arm wound around your waist as he talks with one of his old professors. You had tried to keep up with their conversation in the beginning, but once the topic of research came up and the medical jargon came out to play you had tuned the both of them out.

“…like I’ve bored your plus one half to death.” Laughter brings you out of your thoughts, and a sheepish smile takes over your face when you see two sets of eyes focused on you. “My apologies, Miss, this old man just doesn’t know when to shut his trap, it seems. I guess it’s time I find another ear to blab off.”

“Oh, no, please stay, you’re fine! I’m sorry, I was just.. lost in thought.” The man waves you off with a gentle smile.

“You two should enjoy each other’s company before someone else comes to hog his attention.” He jokes. “It was nice seeing you again, Zayne, and please do think about visiting the college sometime to talk with a few of the undergrads. A lot of them revere you, you know.”

“I’ll give it some consideration, Professor Grinley.” With a few more words, Grinley is making his way to the other side of the room and Zayne is letting out a heavy sigh. “Have I ever told you that I love the fact that you can’t hide your disinterest?” You throw a halfhearted thrown his way.

“I hope I didn’t offend him - he sounded so excited to talk with you, too. Oh, now I feel bad.” His arm around your waist tightens just a bit.

“Don’t. I was just about to make our exit anyways if you hadn’t done it first.” He steers the both of you to the outskirts of the crowd, and your shoulders lose a bit of their tension when you feel like there aren’t so many eyes on the both of you. “Something has been bothering you all night and I haven’t been able to figure out what.”

He moves to stand in front of you, head angled down as he catches your eye. “Would you care to tell me?”

“It’s something silly, hardly even worth talking about.” You take another sip of your champagne, this time longer, and Zayne patiently waits for you to swallow and lower your glass back down.

“It’s not silly if it’s upsetting you.” He softly says, pale hand raising to tuck away an errant piece of hair. “Are you—”

“Dr. Zayne!” A bright flash makes you squint your eyes, and you huff at the event photographer before plastering a smile on your face as the both of you turn to face him.

“I never want to see another camera after tonight.” You say through a practiced laugh, and Zayne places his hand on your hip and gives a comforting squeeze. After the photographer has had his fill he’s moving onto the next person, bright light flashing on welcoming parties.

“We can head outside for some fresh air, if you want. The speech isn’t for another hour.” You give a slow nod.

“Yeah, I think—”

“Dr. Zayne! Can you answer a few questions regarding your latest surgery?”

“Dr. Zayne! It’s been so long since our last banquet - how are you doing these days?”

“Dr. Zayne!”

Knowing he’d walk away from the forming crowd with nothing more than a mildly polite ‘excuse us’, you nudge him a bit and give a small smile.

“Go ahead. I needed to use the bathroom anyways.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive, now go.” You shoo him to the crowd, not missing the way the corners of his mouth quirk down, and make your exit out of the hall. When the door shuts behind you, the noise goes down considerably, and you sigh as you lean back against it.

The walk to the bathroom is short, and you brace your hands on the sink’s counter as you stare at your reflection. You do look nice - well put together, which is a stark contrast to how you usually look when you’re out in the field with a blade in hand and muck on your clothes.

You’ve always felt like an outsider when it came to Zayne and his work, a little bit less than, and it had been one-sided issue on your part in the beginning of your relationship. There was always a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he could do so much better, and the media only enabled that voice to get louder and louder over time.

Zayne was a bit of a celebrity in his own right, so he often found himself on the topic line of some article or blog, and coupled with being attractive, his love life was usually always one of the main talking points.

You usually steered clear of those things, learning from the first time you had scrolled through an article featuring the both of you and saw many unsavory comments about you in particular, but words always had a way of getting back to you, no matter how much you ignored them.

You tried to pay it no mind -what did it matter that a bunch of strangers on the internet didn’t think you were good enough for Zayne- but it seemed like you couldn’t stop recalling all those things that had been said as you were forced to see just how big the gap was between the two of your worlds.

A sudden knock on the door makes you jump, and you call out a ‘just a second’ as you turn the water on to wash your hands. The sound of the knob turning makes you frown, and you turn your head to protest, only to stop when Zayne steps inside and closes the door behind himself.

“Zayne?”

“I believe I’ve finally figured out what has you upset.” You quirk a brow before pulling free a paper towel from the dispenser.

“Have you?”

“I have.” He takes slow steps towards you, head slightly angled to the side, and your hands fidget together as he gives you a slow appraisal. “And I’m here to tell you that it’s without merit.” He stops mere centimeters away, and you breathe in the scent of his signature cologne as you lean against the marbled counter. “That room full of, as you would say, snobby, elitist assholes—”

“—oh, I would never.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a ghost of a smile.

“—could never dream of holding a candle up to you and all that you’ve accomplished in your life.”

“That’s the thing, Zayne, I haven’t accomplished anything.” You stress. “All I’ve done is—”

“Save countless lives by exterminating Wanderers - likely far more than I have in all of my career.” Cold hands move to cup your cheeks. “I admire you deeply, truly. I’ll never know what I did to deserve someone as compassionate, brave, strong, smart, and as beautiful as you, but I’m eternally grateful.” His voice is low as he speaks, and you don’t miss the tinge of pink creeping into his ears and crawling up his neck.

Warmth blooms in your chest as he holds your gaze, and it quickly spreads throughout your whole body when cool lips press against your own. Your lids flutter shut as you arch into him, one of his hands flattening in the dip of your back to keep you pressed against him.

The kiss is much too frenzied for this public bathroom, and it seems that Zayne comes to the same conclusion as he reluctantly pulls away, but not before giving you another long, more chaste kiss.

The two of you part with a suctioned noise, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face as the both of you struggle to catch your breath.

“Y’know,” you begin, “you’re awfully good at making me feel better.” An uncharacteristic glint sparkles in his eye, and you gasp when he tugs you even closer with a firm grip, his eyes locked onto yours as he lowers his voice.

“I assure you that this is nothing - just wait until I get you home.”

[gobbogoo]

How Good Can The TF2 Mercenaries Read?

Heavy: PHD-level reading comprehension! ...in Russian. Knows how to read only basic English, mainly what's relevant to his job. Enjoys writing simple messages to the enemy on the bomb cart. (Dear Red, yer dead!)

Scout: Barely literate. Knows basics necessary for children's comics, but gets caught up on stuff like "ch = sh" in words like "machine," or the extra "b" on the end of "bomb." Mostly relies in guess-work.

Medic: Can read and write both English and German, although his knowledge of the prior stems primarily from medical vocabulary. Has to concentrate when reading more dense English texts.

Spy: Can fluently read English, French, Spanish, Morse Code, and several other languages. The most literate of the team by a long shot.

Engineer: Excellent reading comprehension and vocabulary, as well as an understanding of technical writing. Poetry and metaphor fly right over his head, though. If you're trying to say something, just say it! Sticks strictly to nonfiction.

Sniper: Average reading/writing comprehension. Values books both for information/entertainment and toilet paper/kindling.

Soldier: Has a child's writing/reading comprehension (nothing above a single syllable) UNLESS the text is related to military lingo or legal jargon, both of which he will understand but wildly misinterpret. He often gets bored after the first sentence, so he just guesses what the rest of the text is about and then fully believes that guess with 110% of his soul.

Demoman: Slightly better reading comprehension then Sniper, due to a childhood spent studying chemistry, ballistics, Scottish history, and the Bombinomicon that one time. Nowadays, he isn't often sober enough to make out the words, though. Has memorized the blurry shapes of all the chemicals he uses.

Pyro: A weird case. Pyro-Vision Goggles tells us that Pyro perceives written language as variations of "mmmph," however they seem to derive some meaning from this as they're seen reading a newspaper in the comics. Presumably whatever they "read" is different from what's actually written, though, so it's still inaccurate to say they know how to read English.

BONUS:

Pauling: Has fully mastered speed-reading, and spends a great deal of her time writing/reading documents. She's also a huge fantasy nerd, but hasn't had time to read any in years.

Saxton Hale: Has surprisingly sound reading comprehension, but has Bidwell read everything for him whenever possible. Also authors the official Saxton Hale comics through dictation, but never writes any of it personally to avoid liability.

The Administrator: [Classified]

[badbatchsprincess]

Heated ~ pt.4

Pt.1 ~ Pt.2 ~ Pt.3 ~ Pt.4 ~ Pt.5 ~ Pt.6 ~ Pt.7 ~ Pt.8 ~ Pt.9

Masterlist

Summary: This is an ABO Bad batch!Poly x Omega Reader smut with a plot. This takes place as an AU before order 66. Y/N previously served under the 501st before being transferred to Special Forces 99. This is her adventure with these rowdy Alphas in a quickly changing universe.

THIS IS AN ABO AU ABOUT THE BAD BATCH (NO CANON OMEGA!) Due to the unfortunate situation of her name being Omega… Omega the child from the canon series is not going to be apart of this fanfic/porn with a plot. I feel obligated to put this warning in because it makes my skin crawl thinking anyone could make that mistake. 

Warnings: Some suggestive themes and awkward situations. Medical related jargon, and some canon type violence.

Happy bad batch eve... I hope we made it through this one, or we die like clones 🫡.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

"We’ve got incoming!" Tech announced from the cockpit.

"Crosshair, man the blasters!" Hunter ordered as he settled into the cockpit with Echo and Tech.

Crosshair skipped past you as you nudged your way over to the jump seats. You always hated this part. It was always separatists, pirates, or just some pissed-off asshole making it difficult for your squad.

You literally could not strap into the jump seat fast enough. Once secured, you clutched your medic pack to your chest while the others ran around in a frenzy.

"Steady the ship!" Crosshair barked as he unloaded the blaster cannons on the pursuers.

"Why can’t things just go smoothly?" You whined, gripping the seat straps.

Echo just gave you a sympathetic look while Tech skillfully outmaneuvered the gunships. A particularly loud blast hit the hull, and you screamed, praying to the maker that none of you would get sucked out into the vacuum of space.

"It’s okay, Pip," Wrecker tried to comfort you. "We’ve been through worse."

"Don’t remind me," you said, gripping the straps even tighter.

Tech said something to Hunter when Crosshair confirmed, "One down. Two to go."

"Who even is that?" Wrecker asked, trying to look over Crosshair's shoulder. The Sniper just grunted and went back to aiming the scope.

"Gonk! Gonk!" The droid chirped, nuzzling up to your boot.

"It’s okay, Gonky," you sobbed, feeling the G-force of one of Tech’s turns. "The boys got it… I think."

"Of course, we got it," Tech said.

"Get closer to the surface," Hunter ordered, and Tech made a dramatic turn towards the planet below.

You took a deep breath, trying to still your nerves. You were beginning to miss the boring moments from Anakin’s ship. This was definitely a stark difference.

"I can’t outrun them," Tech began fiddling with the controls. "They’ll just follow us to the surface."

"Two down!" Crosshair yelled.

He suddenly hit the accelerator, throwing everyone backward. You let out a scream as you watched Hunter’s feet float up into the air, and Gonky went sliding down the galley with a panicked wail. Even Wrecker went tumbling into the gunship’s stairs like a newborn fathier.

Tech suddenly cut the engines and whipped the back of the Marauder around, knocking Crosshair into the side of the glass window. Once the ship made a 180, he punched the accelerator and started charging straight for the last pursuer. Echo was quick with the front guns, firing accurately and hitting him on the nose. The ship exploded into a million pieces, and you finally let out the breath you had been holding.

"Everyone okay?" You called out, and they all groaned in response.

"Good flying, Tech," Hunter clapped his brother on the shoulder.

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair, finally letting the adrenaline calm down.

"I hope Kashyyyk is more welcoming than that," Echo mumbled.

"Doubt it," Crosshair came prowling back into the main cabin, reaching for Firepuncher.

"From my cross-referencing, I believe those gunships were Trandoshan," Tech pushed his goggles up the bridge of his nose. "That would make sense as to the very reason why we are here."

"We need to take out a separatist-backed outpost," Echo informed. "Trandoshans have assisted in building these operations. They don’t like the Wookies as they’ve been loyal to the Republic, so they’ve teamed up with the Seppies to get a few hits in."

You sighed, hoping everything would go smoothly this time. You happened to love the Wookies. Your best childhood friend was a Wookie. But that was a story for another time.

"Prepare for landing," Tech announced.

"General Plo is supposed to be touching down in one rotation," Hunter informed. "We have to take out their stronghold before then."

"General Plo? As in Commander Wolffe’s garrison?" Your pulse increased, and Hunter turned to look at you. You just gave him a little nod, and he continued on.

"Republic forces can’t deploy ground support until this artillery cannon has been destroyed."

"I get to blow it up?" Wrecker clapped.

"Yup," Hunter nodded.

"And how exactly are we supposed to get to this artillery unit?" Echo asked, looking at the schematics. "It’s surrounded with BX’s… my favorite." He groused.

You gave him a little supportive nudge.

"Do I get to stay on the ship?" You asked hopefully.

"Yes," Hunter agreed. "Pip stays on the ship. Echo, I understand if you don’t want to come given the situation."

Echo just groaned. "I know. But I want to come. I’ve got a score to settle."

Hunter agreed, which meant you’d stay on the ship and monitor coms in case they needed a swift pickup. The boys devised a strategic plan to get Wrecker behind the blockade to plant the charges, and that was that.

"Pip... If anything happens, and I mean anything, you shoot to kill, do you understand?" Hunter asked, handing you a blaster again. You just nodded and stepped into the holster, securing it to your belt. You had a feeling you were going to have to learn to use one of these things whether you liked it or not.

"Trandoshans have thick hides," Tech took the pistol and added one of his fancy charges in there. "You’ll need something stronger." The modified charge blasts glowed bright blue.

"Aim for the eyes," Crosshair tutted.

"Okay. Okay," you said, putting the blaster back into the thigh holster. "I will. Happy?"

The five Alphas just huffed in approval before gathering their things.

"Alright, let's get this done," Hunter led the charge.

"Close and lock the door!" Tech reminded you as the five left. You gave him a mock salute and hit the side panel, closing yourself inside the Marauder.

Deciding you needed something to keep you busy, you cranked up the volume on Tech’s radio and started getting to work on cleaning the filthy ship. After a week on board Skywalker’s Venator, you realized how nose blind you had become.

~~~

"Well, that’s disgusting," you used one of Tech’s soldering pliers to pick up a crusty sock from under his bunk.

Tossing the rest of Tech’s laundry into the repurposed supply sack, you threw the boys' nasty laundry into the washer, along with their sheets and blankets.

"No mercy!" you talked to yourself. "Everything goes in."

By the time you had heard anything from the boys, you had managed to clear out the entire cockpit, galley, and main cabin. You had a massive pile of trash you needed to take out. Between the six of you, there was a lot of Republic-issued meal wrappers and ration packs. You scrubbed, dusted, and washed every crack and surface in this whole damn ship. You had no clue where most of that gunk had come from, and you surely didn’t want to know. There was definitely a secondary ecosystem forming in this spacecraft.

You skipped up to the radio and put the headset on, "This is Pip, squad leader, come in."

"You doing okay out there?" Hunter asked.

"Yeah, just on my third load of laundry," you chuckled. "Did you know I found a few interesting items hidden on this ship?" You teased.

"Don’t go sticking your nose in places unless you're prepared for the consequences," Crosshair jested.

"Don’t worry, Cross," you bit your lip. "I found your socks too."

You could imagine him scowling at this point. You waited for his reply, "The Marauder’s clean enough to do surgery," you were cheery.

"Good, because we may be needing it," Tech’s reply made your blood run cold.

"What?" You stood up, taking the headset with you. "What happened?"

"The usual. Some minor cuts and bruises," Tech replied, "but Wrecker got a pretty bad gash to his cranium. He may require stitches."

"Okay, I’ll be ready. You guys get back here when you can, okay?"

"Will do, Pip," Hunter closed off the communication line.

You sighed and put down the headset before returning back to your project. Deciding you needed something to do besides worry about your unit, you went back to the galley and pulled out the already dry load of clothing from the tumbler.

You sat down on the floor, spreading out to fold the various clothes and sort them back into their proper piles.

Crosshair’s pile of ever-growing collection of black civvies sat to your left, Hunter had a few varying neutrals he likes. Wrecker had a few T-shirts with some of his favorite bands on them, and Tech had a very neat pile of lights he preferred to wear on his shore leave. That left Echo; the arch trooper had a pair of clothing for every occasion. The man preferred being comfortable. You understood. Spending that much time on ice, he liked what he liked and didn’t take one second of comfort for granted. He had pajamas, warm sweats, T-shirts, long sleeves, jackets, hoodies, shorts. You smiled and folded everything neatly before setting the piles on their owners' cots.

You smiled at your work and went back to put the last of the laundry in the dryer.

Taking Wrecker’s Tooka mug, you filled it with lukewarm caff and sat down at the dining table, sipping it slowly. You even picked away at a freeze-dried snack pack, waiting for the tumbler to ding.

"Gonky?" You called out into the storage room.

"Gonk. Gonk." You heard the chirpy little droid respond before waddling out into the galley.

"How’s your battery levels?" You asked.

He just shook back and forth.

"Should I hook you up to the solar?" You asked, reaching under the dining table.

"Gonk!" He waddled closer and spun around so you could hook him up to the energy system. Gonky settled and powered down next to you while he went through his charging cycle.

"There you go, little guy."

You heard a sudden loud bang in the distance, making you shoot up from the Tooka mug.

"What the..." You looked outside of the cockpit window and saw a massive mushroom cloud forming in the distance. It took a second, but when the sound wave hit, the entire Marauder shook violently, making Gonky startle.

"Wrecker…" You shook your head, knowing he’ll be over the moon about the size of the dust cloud.

You heard the dryer ding, so you popped the last freeze-dried fruit nib in your mouth before adding the packaging to the trash and sauntered over to the galley. Pulling the massive pile of sheets out onto the floor, you got to work finishing it up before they could get back.

Once every bunk was made, and every last clean sock was returned to their storage drawers, you plopped back down into Tech’s chair, debating whether or not you should pull up a holofilm to bide the time.

"Pip!" Echo’s voice radioed in, "Open the hatch!"

You chucked your data pad to run to the door panel. You slammed the disengage, letting the door flip down. You were greeted with the boys struggling to support Wrecker, who was covered in crimson blood.

You didn’t say a word; instead, you turned to grab your pack and make room for him to sit comfortably.

Crosshair and Tech helped the big guy on board and into the main cabin where you had him sit on a cargo crate.

"What happened, Wrek?" You said softly, approaching him.

He just groaned and slumped his shoulders, mumbling to himself.

"What was that?" You asked again, pulling out your cleaning solution.

He shrugged a little embarrassed. "I hit my head on a low pipe."

"Awh, honey," you cooed, bringing the cool cloth to his head. "You gotta look where you’re going."

"I knowww," he groaned.

You smiled and continued your work, gently cleaning up all of the blood in the surrounding areas to prepare him for some bacta and a bandage.

“It smells weird in here,” he sniffled, suddenly realizing the years of gunk were gone.

“Because it’s clean!” Echo admonished.

“Any trouble, Adi’ka?” Hunter asked, setting down his heavy pack.

You shivered at the Mando’a but tried to play it off. The last time you had heard that word, he had been all over you in the hangar bay. “Nope. Everything was quiet.”

“Good,” he seemed pleased, slowly beginning to take off his armor and put the pieces in a pile on top of his pack. He walked off to the cockpit to relay the success to General Plo.

You shuffled around Wrecker and stood between his legs to get a missed patch of dried blood. You looked down at him and whispered into his unscarred ear, “What does that mean?”

He looked up at you with a smirk, “It means he thinks you're small.”

“Small?” You tilted your head.

“Yeah,” Wrecker chuckled, “You are!”

“Am not,” you scrunched your nose.

“You’re tiny!” He put his hand on top of your head, which you realized barely reached his height while he was seated. “Our little Pipsqueak.”

“It doesn’t mean she’s small, you idiot,” Crosshair passed into the main cabin wearing his more relaxed clothing, “It means little one,” he drawled.

“That’s what I said,” Wrecker argued.

Crosshair just shook his head and continued into the cockpit. Unlike Wrecker, you didn’t miss the double meaning. It was the same pet name Crosshair used with you. It suddenly made a shiver run over your skin. Little one. It was a term of endearment. You were starting to feel hot all over again.

“You okay, Pip?” Wrecker noticed you get lost in thought.

You just nodded and continued your work. You smeared a healthy amount of bacta on his gash and covered it thoroughly with a bandage. “Hey, Wrek?” You started cleaning up your supplies. “Do you think of me as pack?” You asked softly, half expecting him to reject you.

“As pack?” He asked, looking at you with wide eyes.

“Mhmm?” You responded; the suspense was killing you.

“I always thought of you as pack, Pip,” he smiled, bringing you into a big bear hug. You let out a deep breath, feeling relief. You hugged him back, letting the happy little omega in you relax.

Wrecker was pack. Facts.

“Do you think the others do?” You whispered again.

He whispered back, “I think the others do too. Echo’s always been, but I’m not entirely sure about Crosshair,” he was sympathetic. It was exactly the answer you hoped for.

Wrecker let you go a little bit, “I saw how upset he was when Hunter hurt you bad. So maybe he does. I dunno,” he shrugged.

“What are you two whispering about back there?” Echo’s voice rang throughout the cabin, and both you and Wrecker flushed red, getting caught red-handed.

“Nothing!” You giggled, handing him a juice pack.

He happily took it and slurped it down. You were hoping to get his blood sugar back up from the blood loss. You gave his arm a little squeeze and helped him up to his feet. You gave him instructions to go eat something and stay awake for the next 12 hours after a head injury.

“Who’s next?” You yelled.

Tech came scampering into the dining area, taking off his glove to show you his busted knuckles. You followed the same steps as Wrecker, cleaning and repairing. He then took off his helmet, and you helped pull a few pieces of stray shrapnel from his cheek.

“Just so you know, Y/N, I too think of you as pack,” he said suddenly, making your hand falter. He had heard you and Wrecker.

You looked up at the skinny clone with emotion in your eyes, “Really?”

“Though we are not the most traditional group, it would seem you fit well into our dynamic, and our unconventional ways have not deterred you.”

You smiled, nuzzled his cheek with your forehead, and continued cleaning the cut on his face. His cheeks turned bright pink at the sudden and unexpected affection.

“Thanks, Tech,” you quickly smeared some bacta on him and sent him on his way. He just gave you a smile and took his helmet with him.

Next, to your surprise, Crosshair came sauntering in, chewing on his toothpick and watching you straighten out your things.

“Do you need something, Cross?” You used your nurse voice, knowing he was staring holes into your back.

“Yeah, Adi’ka,” he smirked.

You bristled and slowly turned to side-eye him, “What can I help you with?”

“I have a deep cut,” he fiddled with the pick, “I need you to patch it.”

“Okay,” you nodded to the table.

He just walked over and leaned against it. You looked him over, not seeing any visible injury. You were going to open your mouth to ask where the cut was, but he just tapped his thigh.

You sighed… of course, Crosshair, “Take off your pants,” you ordered, thinking you heard Hunter cough from the front of the ship.

Crosshair just raised a brow and smirked, opening his mouth to make a smartass retort, but you crossed your arms and glared at his smug expression. He snorted and bent down to slide his black joggers down, leaving the right leg on. You then instructed him to sit on the table, which he obliged. If you hadn’t been a trained nurse, this might have phased you, but you’ve seen much worse in the field, so you just shoved his injured leg further open, making him look down at you with surprise. He didn’t expect you to be so confident.

He must have tried his best to wrap it in the field, as it had mostly stopped bleeding. Crosshair seemed to make a pretty good medic when on duty.

“Do I want to know?” You asked, grabbing your laser suture and prepping the fresh cartridge.

“Probably not,” he leaned back on his palms, letting you get as close as you needed to. You grabbed a stool and settled in between his long lithe legs. Crosshair watched you with a close eye as you nudged closer to him confidently.

“Do you need a tetanus shot?” You asked, looking up at him. He swallowed before answering, “Most likely.” He returned his gaze to the wall behind you.

You quickly got to work, imagining all of the potential horrible ways he got this nasty cut. He was right; it was deep and ugly.

You put on your safety glasses and grabbed the laser suture. You tested out the machine, priming its little ion core. He looked down at you with a skeptical glare. You just smiled up at him and got to work. Carefully, you stitched him back together.

If he was in pain, he didn’t let on, not even one bit.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” you said, adding another careful binding stitch.

“For what?” He groused as he felt the stinging burn.

“For taking care of me,” you said, tilting your chin forward to get another glance before placing another stitch. “My friend told me about what you did. And in the end, you helped me get to Naboo.”

He didn’t respond. You didn’t expect him too.

“I was beginning to think you didn’t like me,” you added.

He grimaced at the pain, “I’m starting to rethink my stance.” Now you knew he was in pain. His silence was probably him trying to fight off the urge to growl at you.

You just smiled softly, knowing he didn’t mean it. You finished up with the last stitch and grabbed your tub of bacta and an applicator. You smoothed on the soothing gel, and he visibly relaxed. You knew that had to feel good.

Last came the bandage and the shot of medicine and painkiller. He took the repair job like a champ, and you knelt down, helping him slide his sweatpants back up his legs very carefully, holding onto his waistband to avoid the fresh injury.

“Hey guys, General—woah…” Echo stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the two of you.

It was then you realized the situation you were in. You looked back at Echo, whose eyes were glued to your hands. You then looked at Crosshair’s waist, where you were still holding onto the band of his pants, and then up to his flushed face (from the pain, of course). Not to mention, your face was literally mere inches from his crotch as you kneeled on the ground in front of him. You immediately dropped his pants, letting them snap back into his black boxers, and scooted away, leaving Echo to laugh at your embarrassment.

“I thought we handled that problem,” Echo howled, watching you scurry back up to your feet.

“Shut up, vod,” Crosshair slid from the table, pulling up his pants the rest of the way.

“Hey, guys!” Echo turned back towards the cockpit, leaving you, “I think we’re going to have to make a run back to Naboo…”

You were about to run back to your bunk when Crosshair’s arm shot out and caught you by the scruff like a rowdy pup. You lurched back as he swiveled you around to face him, bringing you closer to his face. Your heart was in your ears.

“We’re even, yeah, tooka?” He looked at you, taking the toothpick out of his mouth.

Your mouth instantly dried up, “Mhmm.” You nodded, knowing your cheeks were as red as a Sith’s lightsaber.

He let go of you, pleased. You straightened out your uniform and watched him saunter out of the cabin.

“Sith’s hell,” you muttered, putting all of your things away and stowing the pack on board.

Echo was still laughing when you finally decided to turn in and change into your comfy clothing for the night. Folding your uniform carefully, you grabbed your just-laundered sweats and tank top. You plucked out your favorite pair of fuzzy socks and pulled them on before stepping out into the main cabin.

Tech gave you a tray of steaming rations, and you sat down at the table, happy for another meal. You thanked him and dug in. The boys chatted about the mission, and Wrecker animatedly retold how he masterfully blew up the entire ion cannon. You laughed, listening to their story, finishing up your mashed roots when Tech started giving you the exact specifications of the Separatist base.

It was then you felt eyes on you. Without looking up, you realized Crosshair was watching you with his trained eye. Suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic, you sat up and took a big sip of water.

“How was your day, Y/N?” Tech asked, drinking his blue milk.

“Oh, you know…” You waved your spork around, “Just held off an entire army of Trandoshans all on my own.” You rolled your eyes playfully.

Echo crossed his arms, leaning back, eager to play along, “You didn’t even call for backup?”

You scoffed, “Of course not. Me and Gonky are a superb team.” You laughed, “Plus, me and Mini Firepuncher over here are doing just fine without you boys.” You patted the still-holstered blaster sitting on the shelf next to the dining table. Even Tech laughed at that.

“So when are you going to let Crosshair teach you how to use that thing?” Echo said slyly.

You slowed your chewing and swallowed thickly. Crosshair just looked at you with a bored expression.

“I didn’t think that was on the table,” you said, looking up at him.

“Neither did I,” he raised a brow.

“It’s becoming obvious that you need to sooner or later,” Hunter said, setting down his spork.

“But-but…” You stammered.

“It’s okay, Pip,” Wrecker nudged you, “You’ll probably never need to use it.”

You sighed, “I don’t like it.”

“Didn’t you learn in the training program with the GAR?” Tech asked, “It’s standard for medics.”

“I’m a civilian medic,” you shook your head, “I was in a nursing program at Coruscant University before I was selected to be brought into the clone medic program. The only medics with combat training are clones.”

Tech nodded, noting that down on his datapad.

“You’ve never received any combat training?” Crosshair asked.

“How did none of you know this?” You looked around, “Look at me.” You gestured to your noodle frame.

“I did,” Echo raised his scomp.

“So did I,” Hunter bit into a piece of meat, “I had to read your file when you were transferred.”

“And you still took me?” You laughed.

He chuckled, “Of course. You were beyond qualified with frontline experience. We needed that.”

"You needed someone who can use a laser suture," 

He nodded, "That would be correct."

"Good call, Sergeant." You finished your portions and flung the tray into the kitchen sink.

"Wrecker’s on dish duty," you smiled, standing up from your chair and grabbing the pistol and its holster. Wrecker just groaned, making you giggle evilly.

"Let’s get this over with," you found your combat boots and pulled them on, "C’mon Cross, before I change my mind."

He stood up, putting his tray in the sink and grabbing a cup of caff, "I didn’t agree to this."

You just opened the hatch, feeling the warmth of the sun starting to set in the distance. Crosshair grabbed firepuncher and shoved you out of the way before descending the stairs. You recovered from the stumble and trotted after him with a grin. You knew he’d want to show off.

"I’m not missing this," Echo said, pushing his tray to Wrecker before walking outside.

Crosshair pulled out his vibro blade and stalked over to a nearby tree, carving a massive target on the trunk.

"Alright," he stalked back, throwing the blade and letting it whiz through the air before planting itself in the dirt at Hunter’s feet. The Sergeant groused, stopping in his tracks and crossing his arms.

"First lesson," Crosshair waited for you to hold the pistol, "Check how many charges you have." He showed you how to release the clip to see the modified plasma cartridge.

"It’s at full power, so you should be good." He took the pistol and used his palm to slam the clip back into place, "Next, you flick off the safety. It won't fire unless this is turned to the right." You nodded, listening diligently.

"Then, you hold it firmly with both hands. Hunter was able to knock it out of your grip because you only had one hand. Make sure it’s secure."

You swallowed thickly, mimicking his hands.

"Then you aim and fire. There will be a small kickback, don’t let that scare you." He held up his own pistol and fired at the tree, hitting it spot on. You stood there a little unsure.

"You can do it!" Echo yelled from the ship’s steps.

"I just pull the trigger?" You asked.

"That’s what I said," he crossed his arms.

You took a deep breath, peering down the sight. You held it towards the tree and pulled the trigger with a squeak. The blast flew way to the left of the tree, hitting a nearby rock.

Crosshair just raised a brow, "You can’t aim with your eyes closed."

You looked at him, "It’s scary."

He looked like he was going to throw you into the tree.

"Again."

"Ugh." You tried aiming again. Taking another deep breath, you placed your finger on the trigger and squeezed.

"Wrong tree!" Hunter yelled as he sat next to Echo on the stairs.

"We’re gonna be here for a while," Echo sighed.

"Again," Crosshair commanded.

~~~

The sun was going down and you were getting frustrated. You had squeezed off forty rounds, two hit the tree but not the target, and the others, well, they ended up somewhere. 

“Again.” Crosshair was lounging against a tree behind you closing his eyes. 

“Can you just help me?” You turned around looking at him desperately. 

He opened an eye, “You stunned Hunter I know you can do it.”

“That was close range!” You whined. 

Echo and Hunter were busy building a camp fire listening to you growl at the tree. You were about ready to march over there and set the tree on fire. 

“She’s cute when she’s mad.” Wrecker said watching you from the Marauder. 

Echo and Hunter whipped around to watch you unload onto the unsuspecting forest. The three just bit their tongue and continued on with the fire not wanting to add to your frustration. 

“Argh! I’m not good at this!” You waved the gun around, “For kriff sake Crosshair are you taking a nap?” 

“I’ve had a long day.” He grumbled crossing his arms across his chest and leaned further into the tree. 

“Ugh!” You screamed turning back to the tree and firing again… missing…again.

Your scream made the others laugh. Tech just observed your poor aiming capabilities and typed into his calculator, “She has an approximately 1.3% chance success rate of hitting her desired target.” 

“This is getting sad.” Echo warmed up next to the fire. 

You spun around slapping the safety on and chucking the gun into Crosshair’s stomach. His eyes flew open wildly before snapping up to you. 

“Help! Me!” You growled in all your tiny omega glory. 

The sniper stood up dwarfing you in his size. You were too mad to cower. Instead, he stood up and held the blaster up firing three consecutive shots hitting the bullseye, “Here.” He kept the gun in its position and let you squeeze in-front of him to take the weapon. Keeping it exactly where he held it, you peered down the site and pulled the trigger watching the blue plasma blast hit inside the target’s outer ring. 

“Oh my god!” You screamed, “Oh my god! I did it! I did it!” You jumped around ignoring the grouchy sniper shaking his head. “I did it!” You celebrated. 

“Told you, you could do it!” Echo cheered from the side. He then turned to the others and in a whisper said, “I didn’t think she could do it.”

The others just nodded and sipped their caff. 

“Show me again.” You trotted over to Crosshair suddenly feeling excited to hold the weapon. 

“Since you asked so nicely.” He rolled his eyes and adjusted your grip. He stood back and grunted. He stepped forwards again using his boot to kick your left foot forwards slightly adjusting your stance. When he was satisfied with your positioning he turned back to the tree letting you take control. 

You fired again hitting the inside of the target again. You gasped and fired again watching the blasts hit inside the target. You just looked up at Crosshair with excited eyes. He gave you an approving nod before going back to his reclining tree. 

You leaned forwards a bit getting used to the placement. 

“Oh she’s doing it!” Tech said a bit surprised. 

“She’s hitting the tree!” Wrecker clapped. 

“Finally.” Hunter chuckled. 

“Guys! I did it!” You looked over at the squad and they cheered you on.

When you were finally out of charges, Crosshair called it a night wanting nothing more than to jump into his bunk and go to sleep. 

You however, were giddy. You trotted over to the campfire and plopped down on one of the crates wrecker set up for you all to sit on. 

“Tomorrow we're teaching you how to defend yourself.” Hunter handed his cup of hot caff to you.

“Isn’t that what Crosshair just did?” You sipped the brown liquid pulling your legs up into a crisscross. 

“We’re going to teach you how to fight.” Wrecker smashed his fist into his palm. 

You gulped and looked at them with concern. 

“Wait like…punching and stuff?” You curled in slightly.

“Don’t worry we’ll take it easy on you.” Echo chirped. 

“But like… Hunter literally wiped the floor with me.” You looked up at him, “I can’t fight. He threw me around like a limp tooka.” 

“We’ll show you the basics.” Hunter took his cup back and sipped, “Eventually you’ll have to leave the Marauder one day, I don’t want anything happening to you.” 

You sighed, “Yes Sarge.” 

He hummed happily continuing to finish his cup. 

You just curled up on your crate and snagged a moving blanket letting the fire warm you as the boys talked. 

“General Plo should be arriving tomorrow morning.” Hunter let everyone know, “They’ll be securing Kashyyyk base come sun up.” 

You just nodded and rested your eyes. 

Quickly, without notice, you fell asleep to the sound of your pack and the crackling fire deep within the Kashyyyk forest. Your sleep would have been perfect if it wasn’t for a disturbance under your curled frame. 

You groggily opened your eyes to find Hunter leaning over to pick you up, “C’mon you limp tooka let’s at least get you inside.” 

You just grumbled too tired to fight your Sergeant as he carried you inside like a sleeping pup. When he set you down in your bunk, you kicked off your boots and rolled into the blankets not caring about anything besides being face down in your plush pillow. 

“Goodnight Adi’ka.” Hunter whispered turning to leave. 

“Night Sarge.” You whispered back knowing he could hear you. 

He turned off the light and shut the door behind him to go back to talking with the boys. 

Sleep quickly came for you drifting you off into some much needed rest.

~~~

You really wished you had just stayed in bed this morning. 

Instead, you were now standing out in the sprinkling rain listening to the way Hunter was trying to explain close combat. 

Your exercise clothes were getting chilled from the misty forest air and you were close to shivering. 

“So I’m supposed to hit Tech?” You asked not liking the sound of this one bit. 

Crosshair leaned back on one of the crates legs spread like last night watching you with a smirk. He didn’t have much faith in you, you knew that for certain. Crosshair was more on the team of just letting himself and the others step in if you needed help but Hunter and the others were determined to teach you something. 

Tech stood before you in his civvies and his goggles looking calm as always. 

“It’s okay Y/N. Just do what Hunter showed you.” Tech encouraged taking a slight stance. 

You just whimpered not liking the idea of hurting anyone, especially your pack. 

“It’s hard. I’m fighting instincts.” You sighed putting your fists up like Echo said. 

Crosshair groaned knowing this was stupid trying to teach an omega to get violent. He knew they only get violent when their pups are in danger. It’s literally against her nature. 

“C’mon Pip you can do it!” Wrecker tried to nudge you. 

You just whimpered and stepped forwards throwing a punch at Tech’s shoulder. He swiftly dodged you and pushed you past him. You stumbled over a pile of moss nearly loosing your footing. 

“That was… something.” Echo rubbed his forehead. 

You shook your head and looked at Tech, “You won’t hurt me Y/N, try again.” He cooed. 

You took a deep breath and tried again. This time he flung you around into Wrecker who caught you and spun you around. 

You reared back and launched another punch, this time he grabbed your wrist and rolled you mid air landing you on your back with a thud. You coughed feeling the air press from your lungs. 

“Maker Tech!” Hunter ran over to you kneeling down to help you up, “Gentle vod!” 

“Apologies.” Tech replied scratching his head. 

“It’s okay.” You brushed the moss off of your pants. 

“You’re asking her to do something against her biology.” Crosshair growled. You nodded and agreed with the sniper. 

“I think I’m probably better with learning how to shoot.” You shivered in the cold, “I couldn’t over power an alpha even if I wanted to. You’ll just be tossing me around until someone calls it quits.” 

Echo sighed and stood up walking over to you grabbing you by the shoulder looking deep into your eyes, “Remember that one time on Ryloth when that pup clung to you begging for help? And you took him under your protection when the separatists stormed that village? He was separated from his pack and so were you. We couldn’t get to you in time and you destroyed the droids with nothing but a loose pipe?” 

You looked up at Echo swallowing again. 

“And what did that pup call you?” Echo raised a brow. 

“Ryma.” You whispered suddenly getting emotional. 

Echo nodded, “Ryma.” 

“Ryma?” Wrecker asked. 

“Mother.” Tech translated. 

Mother. Something in you switched at the memory. You looked at Echo who seemed to notice the change, “Now, remember how you felt protecting that little helpless pup and all those horrible droids trying to take him from you.” He backed up letting Tech step forwards again. This time when you struck, you clocked Tech in the chin. His head snapped back surprised you managed to hit him. You stared at your own fist in shock and then immediate panic. 

“Oh my god Tech!” You rushed forwards trying to console the Alpha. 

Hunter just laughed, “That did it.” 

“That was good Pip. Do it again.” Echo encouraged.

Crosshair raised a brow a little impressed Echo was smart enough to tug on your emotions like that. 

The next few minutes you actually were able to do what Hunter had showed you. You sparred lightly with Tech getting used to the basics of kicks and punches. Hunter also taught you how to protect yourself and keep the sides of your head protected while Tech made a few practice strikes. 

You were just starting to get the hang of it when you heard a deep rumbling come from the forest. You all paused your sparring lessons to watch two massive venators appear from hyperspace above your heads. Within seconds, drop ships deployed heading straight for your little encampment. 

“They’re here.” Wrecker watched the ships near the clearing to their left. 

You stood there watching as General Plo Koon’s orange head popped out of the attack ship followed by the telltale grey plastoid of Commander Wolffe’s entire garrison. 

Your stomach flipped when you felt Echo’s mischievous eyes met yours. You looked at him as his lips turned into a smirk. Oh no. 

 You felt the heat creeping up your neck to your cheeks and you quickly excused yourself and trotted back inside the Marauder before anyone else noticed. 

“Hey Sergeant!” 

“Kriff.” You whispered hiding behind the wall of the ship listening to the 104th make their way through the open field towards your unit. 

“Hi Commander.” You heard Hunter great the man you were dying to avoid. 

While you were focus in on what they were saying, you missed Echo sneaking up on you finding you pressed up against the door panel spying. 

“Nuh uh.” He chuckled grabbing both of your shoulders and steering you out of the ship. 

“You’re evil.” You whisper letting him guide you back outside. 

“We need gossip material.” He shoved you forwards into Hunter’s side. You came skittering to a halt and stared daggers at Echo who just meandered into the crowd greeting his friends. 

“And what do we have here.” Wolffe took off his helmet letting it sit on his hip while he looked you up and down. You felt the lump in your throat as the alpha shamelessly eyed you, you suddenly felt exposed in your training gear, “The little omega from 79’s.” He tutted. 

If you hadn’t known Hunter the way you do, you wouldn’t have noticed, but that wasn’t the case. You noticed the small muscles in Hunter’s arm flex like he was rearing for a fight. Clearly he didn’t like Wolffe’s behavior in the slightest but his face remained neutral. 

“What are you doing all the way out here Crya’ika.” He purred 

“Hi Commander Wolffe.” You forced your nurse voice to the forefront. “Sergeant Hunter had quite the assignment, and being their medic, I’m here to make sure they don’t get banged up too badly.” You smiled looking up at your Sergeant for approval. 

“You doing a good job?” He asked with a quirked brow. 

You nodded, “I try my best.” 

“I’m sure you do.” He smiled before turning back towards his men. They began setting up camp leaving you and your boys standing in the light rain watching as more and more attack ships flew overhead no doubt heading towards the blast zone. 

You let out a breath you had been holding and allowed Hunter to escort you back to the ship. 

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.” Hunter mumbled as you approached the steps to the Marauder. 

“He’s an overconfident alpha.” You reassured, “I don’t think he’d ever try anything.” 

Hunter let you walk first into the Marauder, “He tried to pick you up back on Coruscant.” He pointed out. 

“And I didn’t go through with it…” You rolled your eyes. 

“Yeah, but does he know that?” Hunter snapped. 

You jerked back looking at him, “Hunter, I’m not going to rut with him can you please drop it. I’ve already live through one incident I’m determined not to have another.” 

He deflated his shoulders, “Sorry pip. I didn’t mean that. I just don’t like when someone messes with my pack.” 

Your eyes widened. 

His eyes suddenly mirrored yours realizing what he has said and he stuttered, “I- uh.” He scratched his head, “Sorry I-“ 

“I’m pack?” You grinned ear to ear. 

He looked at you seeing how happy it made you, he was thrilled at the smile you were giving him.

“Yeah pip. You’re pack.” He admitted. 

You squealed and jumped on him giving him a big hug. You knew how much of a big deal this was. The 501st immediately adopted you without any hesitation, but you knew how close this unit was. You were beyond the moons hearing that the pack leader had adopted you too. He softly hugged you back. This had been the longest six months ever.

“Do I still have to go to training tomorrow?” You asked mumbling into his armor. 

“Yup.” He replied.

“Dammit.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Bruh, I'm scared for this episode not going to lie....

Taglist: @substantial-exposure @rains-on-kamino @minimissmoo

[johnnys-breastmilk]

desirable | doctor!peter parker x gn!reader

a/n — the pictures are so mismatched but i don't have a gif and they all work separately for the fic so yeah- mishmosh pishposh motherf*ckers <3 (this is a jokey but veryyy smutty fic i wrote to get out of writers block)

summary — Infatuated by the doctor treating you, you return with feigned sickness.

words — 2.9k

warnings — SMUT! 18+, throat-fucking, blowjobs, sexy peter parker

~~~

The office was stuffy, or maybe it was your throat swelling, with a scratch that only stuck out when you tried to speak. You scheduled an appointment within an older practice run by renowned Doctor Bruce Banner, who you had little confidence in since he could hardly understand things about his own body. Not that you would discredit someone of his intelligence, but he struggled to control his body at levels of extreme emotion, and dealing with any sickness is never something calm to bear through. He prevailed on your previous visits; that was the only reason you remained slumped against the wall of the waiting room chairs, fighting congestion and an endlessly parched thirst.

After a little while, a nurse in lime green scrubs called your name, prompting you to stand, and followed her into one of the few patient rooms once she checked your height, weight, blood pressure, and temperature. On your first visit, you were surprised to learn about the scarcity of rooms, only to realize that their sizes were far more massive than what would be required for a human-sized head specialist. The bed you sat on, paper crinkling on even the most trivial shift of your body, took up only a fraction of the room it occupied. The other side of the room had a desk and a chair that faced the wall, both oversized to fit Banner's frame but made the computer, keyboard, and mouse sitting atop it look like little playthings. To the left of the bed were a sink, a few hanging otoscopes to check your ears, and some other things you didn't recognize. To your right was the door the nurse walked out of, and no less than five minutes passed before a doctor with a deeper shade of green scrubs entered.

It was a pleasant surprise to learn that your doctor would not be the Hulk himself but a younger male in hulk-green scrubs who had only recently started working for Doctor Banner. Banner was nice but not always careful, especially with his large, discolored fingers. You were happy that he wouldn't be the one to lay a hand on your throat since he could probably crush your larynx with the jerk of a sneeze. Your new doctor didn't seem as friendly as the big guy, though, seized in a look of shock—possibly embarrassment—as he laid eyes on you, then fumbled with his clipboard. It almost fell to the ground but miraculously clung to the tips of his fingers, and he caught the board. He kept his head low and buried, busying himself with your information, hushedly repeating it aloud.

The doctor's face was pale aside from the flush of ignominy, possibly from the same bug you contracted somewhere around New York, though you figured he happened to not get enough sun. Judging by how he carried himself and the awkward chipperness in his voice, you suspected the latter. Yet he filled out his scrubs rather nicely, tautly stretching over his chest and struggling to hide his bulk for someone potentially sun-appalled. It was like he chose a size down from his typical day apparel to tempt his patients, to keep them engaged with whatever boring medical jargon he was most likely to spew out after giving them a diagnosis. You had to admit, it worked.

His short, chocolate curls looked like they had been on the receiving end of many pushbacks with a shaky hand as if he was excessively nervous. He had a simple complexion, easy on the eyes with warm brown hues that challenged the depth of rich soil. His nametag coruscated in the light; black, blocky lettering printed across the laminate—Dr.Parker.

Silence loomed over the room, only backing away when you let out a few sputtered hacks from the back of your throat. A simple coughing fit to others, but it felt like a raging war broke out for the millionth time today on your sore inner muscles. That's when he looked up.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself. Doctor Parker, and you must be . . ." he hesitated momentarily, scanning the clipboard again—was he that forgetful? His index finger followed the pages of your file before halting, and he spoke your name without his eyes leaving the inky letters. The way it rolled off his tongue felt different than how other people said it, like the set of his mouth was meant to twist and twitch with every syllable. "And a sore throat today, huh? That's gotta hurt."

"Kind of," you said, being courteous about how it hurt to swallow and that it felt like someone was constantly ramming something stiff and sharp down your throat each time you tried to eat the softest foods on the shelf. Doctor Parker moved over to the chair, taking a seat in it. You watched how the backing of the chair reached halfway up to the back of his head when he finally got comfortable in the seat, looking more like an excessively sized dog bed, significantly passing his spread legs. He took ahold of the mouse that filled out his hand—appearing to be more than a handful—and clicked open a few programs until he entered an alterable document. It was complete with information about your previous visits.

"What symptoms have you been dealing with?" he asked, hands resting on the keys underneath the monitor, his beautiful face illuminated by the blank, white screen. You told him about the troubles this illness brought but kept it brief to save your throat the pain later. After you relayed everything to him, his intent ears never missing a slurred or misspoken word, he moved on to diagnosing you.

He got out of the comically-sized chair and drew near. Cold hands met your warmed, overheated skin. "Definitely swollen," he muttered. Only a few words slipped from his mouth since he entered the room, and you hadn't even learned his first name, yet you happily listened and waited for more of his spoken thoughts. If your throat was back to normal, how he held it would have been much more evocative. Was he aware of the effect he had on his patients?

At first, his hands were gentle, like a deer carefully watching its step on an uneven meadow, but they had a growing bite as he started to press into your swollen lymph nodes. The force elicited a painful noise past your lips and a harsh "Ow."

His hands backed away immediately, retreating safely to his sides, and that's when he looked up to your face. You were sure it flushed at his worried glance and not from the sickness.

"Sorry, it's my first day on the job," he half-heartedly apologized.

"Really?" you asked skeptically. Maybe that was why you never saw Doctor Parker before now; he was new.

"No."

"Nervous?" your throat rasped.

His cracked lips stretched, hiding any anxiety he took out on them and forming a brief smile, "Yeah, uh, something like that."

The doctor refrained from putting his hands on you for the rest of the visit, asking you how the infection made you feel and what you noticed during the past few days of dealing with it. He concluded it to be tonsilitis and prescribed a healthy dose of antibiotics that would hopefully kill the infection thriving in your throat. They did their job and had you feeling better within a few days. 

From the view of your bathroom mirror, opaque-white lights cast visibility over your throat. The pain was gone, but the handsome doctor's touch never left, his pale hands turning a true translucent as you felt the ghost of them linger. You needed to go back for the resolution, but finding a reason to return would be difficult.

. . .

"Back again so soon? Guess you missed me," Doctor Parker remarked as he came through the door, realizing that you sat on the table in the same position as last time. "Still sick?"

You nodded, rebuffing words out of fear that the first one to slip out would sound unscratched by your throat, harmonious and smooth. 

"Did it get worse?" You nodded again. "Okay, huh, open up for me? Sorry, please." The doctor heard how it sounded out loud and took the opportunity to make banter with himself where you couldn't. His hand rose and followed your jaw, his thumb glossing over your chin as the rest nearly missed his touch from the last time. With your mouth open, the tip of his flashlight clicked, and out came the light pouring into the darkness. "You sure the medication didn't work? Still feels scratchy?"

You nodded—again. His hands slid down, two fingers on either side of your throat, feeling around for swelling and unwanted masses. Unfortunately, his touch didn't last long, as he pulled away with a look of certainty.

"I've seen enough. I'll call in for a prescription of antibiotics to kill that lie you're committed to."

Your voice slipped, mistakenly asking in a less husky tone, "What do you mean?"

He pushed the chair away from the desk, the tip of his toe sweeping the ground to swivel him around. "I don't want to catch a case of lying, but I don't think I could because you're not sick."

You let your voice return to normal, no longer feigning malady, "How could you tell?"

He stood, leaning against the tall desk. He folded his arms over his scrubs and scrunched the forest green cotton and rayon, "Your throat's gone down, and, obviously, I prescribed the right thing. Top of my class and all. Why did you do it?"

You trapped yourself in here, and there was nothing else to say but the truth, "I . . . think you're hot?"

"Wow, that's a new one—and a relief. Usually, the patients I see more than once have made-up names and appendages I can't even describe—you'd have to be there! And they always try to . . .kill me."

"What?"

"Hey, don't spin this around on me. I'm the one asking questions, here," he mirrored, uncomfortably shifting away from the desk. "How could you make it up to me?"

The question lingered like the newly raised hand to his chin to signify the thoughts running through his head. Your head started to conjure ideas of what exactly he would do. Doctor Parker didn't seem mad when he learned about the reason behind this contrived visit, but maybe it was how he handled things. He kept calm and probably already called security or would ask you to leave, from what you could assume. 

After a few moments of deliberation, he dropped his arms by his sides, "I think the best thing to do, is to give you a taste of your own medicine, yeah?"

With his elbows bent, his hands dug up the hem of his shirt and to the waistband stretching over his flat stomach. The hulk-green elastic slid up to the thenars of his hands with nowhere to go but down, thanks to the pressure he applied, the band easily giving way to reveal his partly defined Adonis belt. It was prominent, but the lines looked as if they were lightly sketched on what was otherwise a perfect sculpture.

"What are you doing?" you had to ask as if it wasn't obvious. His thumbs showed through the outline of his pants and a thicker, more pronounced, and lengthier silhouette just further down. You knew what he wanted; he only had to say it.

"Doing what you want, playing doctor and patient. Today's checkup involves a laryngoscopy—throat examination, if that was too confusing," he spoke as if he was in control but still had the consideration that his soft-leaning look won you over with on your first visit. This time, you saw his hardened and more defined side as he finally let his pants drop to his knees. No underwear. He was confident in a way where other people wouldn't know unless they were close to him. 

His cock stood tall, and his balls hung low with enough to push the limits of whatever it entered and was sure to create enough of a smack with each passionate hip-rock. Lengthy enough to reach all the right places, but not enough to go where it didn't belong. A couple of tugs with his right hand later proved the second half of that untrue as he grew even more excited.

"You're gonna have to lay back," he waded near you, half-pulled-down pants restricting his steps so far. With a single hand, he maneuvered you with impossible strength, only ceasing his hold when you were on your back, head titled over the foot of the examination bed. The table paper's end crinkled in your ears.

The fluorescent tubes casting light from above were shadowed by his figure stepping into the frame of your flipped world view. His smooth and defined thighs blocked your peripherals. In only seconds, the dry head of his cock was at your gated lips. He hastily spoke, teasing, "Say, ahh. I'll make it nice and sore, just like you need."

Your lips brushed it as they parted, "Aren't you supposed to make me feel better?"

"This is for me since you wasted my time. Don't worry, it'll only hurt a little," he left you with that, suddenly entering your mouth, lips conforming to the girth. 

Your tongue felt the topside of his cock; the small ridge where the wide tip ended, and the length and all of its scattered veins began. It was tasteless, bland, and made even more uninteresting since the doctor took his sweet time. The only thing that saved it and provided excitement were the soft noises he made. He had been talkative up until now, but you still knew how he felt. His moans were enough to discern it. He spewed out hushed 'ohs' and pants, which seemed odd as he was less than halfway in your mouth. That was enough to tell he enjoyed it so far, but you wondered about the distance that far away could be. When he didn't have to guide himself into you anymore, the hand holding his hefty length moved to grip the table—tightly. You could have sworn you heard the metal creaking with the pressure.

His cock snaked forward, earning a sharp gluck once he reached your throat. Then, you convulsed, body shaking at the unnatural mass invading your mouth, lips sputtering around him. He sneered in delight, his own set of lips breaking the set of his face to form a smile. His slow pace stopped when a light tracing of hair grazed your chin, balls low enough to brush your nose. Your throat jutted, his head showing from the outside as a small peak in the middle, made more apparent by how your head was titled back.

Slowly, it began to sink and rise as he started to rock his hips. He started to pick up a pace, burying himself until there was nothing left to hide and reeling it back moments later to rest just short of your lips. Every now and then, he would make you swallow his cock for longer than a few seconds, causing welled-up spit to pour from your mouth and onto him and your face. At a certain point, he broke his rhythm, withdrawing all of himself from your wet encasement. Slicked in spit, his gorgeous length glistened in the fluorescent white.

"Feel good?" You could hardly stutter it out, jaw aching at the corners.

"Yeah, it feels great. Nothing wrong with it so far, but I'd like to consider a re-evaluation."

Familiarity washed over you, the same feeling as moments before returning with more wants. More needs. To your surprise, the hand on the examination table keeping his thrusts steady now rested around your throat. The doctor yearned to feel himself piercing you, putting his breath-taking looks into a literal sense. And he did; your throat unwillingly bulged with his deeply buried cock. An unregulated series of appearing and disappearing beneath his palm and wet noises coming from your spit-filled cavern.

After a few more globs of spit well up and spill from your mouth—making all the noises that were expected along with it—the doctor needily stated that he was "going to come." No less than a second later, warm white poured down your throat with no other option except to be swallowed.

The doctor pulled away, a mixture of release and slobber slicking his cock. He waded to the sink, reaching for a few paper towels from the dispenser to wipe himself off.

You sat up, wiping a hand over your mouth and nose to clear off some of his sticky come and your spit, "What about me?"

"What about you?" He laughed at the end of his return. Once he had fixed himself up to act as if the past twenty minutes had never happened, he went to the computer and took a seat on the oversized chair, like last time. 

As he tapped away at the keyboard, he informed you about the changes to your medical file, "I'll put myself as your Primary Care Physician from now on, but Doctor Banner might want to see you soon. I think he'll have a new stress reliever."

[woso-dreamzzz]

picking up on the b99 energy second time alexia also gets super turned on by r saying the most boring nerdy technical medical jargon ever r was telling her about a research paper she was reading about some new acl study and alexia jumped her mid-sentence

The thing that attracted Alexia most was R's intelligence, even when they were kids and she used to kiss R so much during study sessions when R was doing her medical degree.

Alexia hears R talking through a research paper to herself and suddenly Alexia's up and across the room for a make out session

[kk095]

Kara in Trauma

*hey everyone! Hope you're all doing ok and having a good thanksgiving week. I was fooling around with ChatGPT a bit lately. This story isn't my usual style in some ways, but I thought the AI did a good job in coming up with a compelling story! I edited it a little bit here and there, but ChatGPT gets the bulk of the credit here! Hope you all like it 🙏 *

Through the swinging doors of the emergency room came the trauma team’s next patient. The patient was a young lady who received multiple stab wounds to the chest in a robbery attempt gone horribly awry. The young lady was completely terrified and inconsolable, tears streaming down her face, leaving trails on her cheeks, her cries echoing through the trauma room. Her breaths came in ragged, shallow gasps. The patient’s raw, unrestrained emotions and overall vibe were palpable to everyone in the room, creating a sense of urgency for the trauma team.

The patient was 24 year old Kara. She was a petite asian girl with medium length purple hair, gauges in both ears, piercings in her nose, nipples, and belly button. She had tattoo sleeves on both arms, along with various other tattoos scattered elsewhere, making her body look like a beautiful canvas of art.

Now Kara laid on the trauma room table. The trauma team immediately sprang into orchestrated action. Gloved hands moved with precision, a sense of urgency intertwined with every deliberate gesture. A seasoned ER doctor, Dr Lindsay, barked commands, orchestrating the unfolding drama with a calm authority that negated the chaos within. A cacophony of medical jargon filled the space as the trauma team deciphered the language of Kara’s vitals, searching for clues amidst all the commotion. Amidst the flurry, a nurse’s reassuring voice provided a lifeline of comfort to the terrified young woman. Amidst the controlled chaos, a sense of collective determination pulsed through the team- a shared commitment to do everything they could for Kara.

In the throes of unimaginable distress, the young woman’s terror manifested in trembling words and wide, fear-stricken eyes. Her voice, a fragile tremor in the midst of chaos, cut through the emergency room. “I’m scared!” she uttered with a vulnerability that echoed in the sterile air, her words a raw admission of the impending doom. The trauma team, their faces etched with empathy, sought to navigate the delicate balance between urgency and reassurance. “I don’t want to die!” she pleaded, the desperation in her gaze a haunting reflection of a life hanging in precarious balance.

As the minutes ticked away in the emergency room, an ominous deterioration enveloped the young woman. Her breathing, once erratic, now descended into a desperate cadence, each inhale a strained gasp for life. Monitors, now flashing red, bore witness to a heartbeat racing towards an erratic cadence. The room, a display of controlled chaos, echoed with the dissonance of alarms and urgent exchanges. Kara’s complexion took a pasty, ashen hue. Her bare chest saturated in an accumulation of blood. The trauma team felt the palpable urgency, but Kara’s condition continued to defy the trauma team’s urgent interventions.

In the heart-wrenching crescendo of the emergency room, the young woman’s fragile grip on life slipped away in an instant, descending into cardiac arrest. With a seamless urgency, the trauma team pivoted to a relentless choreography of intervention. Kara’s vacant gaze, wide open eyes witnessing the unfolding drama, mirrored the collective intensity and passion of the trauma team’s efforts. Gloved hands moved with practiced precision, navigating the anatomical landscape to secure the endotracheal tube in Kara’s airway while the rhythmic cadence of chest compressions echoed through the room. One of the nurse’s gloved hands moved in a relentless rhythm, compressing the young woman’s chest with a cadence that echoed the seriousness of a fading heartbeat. Each compression was a palpable plea for life, a forceful push against the encroaching stillness. The room reverberated with the metronomic thud of hands meeting sternum, a somber percussion underscoring the gravity of the situation. The nurse’s hands created a rhythm that transcended the cacophony of alarms and stern voices elsewhere in the room. Kara’s body absorbed the determined energy, her chest rising and falling in sync with the orchestrated push for survival. Amidst the palpable urgency of the emergency room, the trauma team delivered defibrillator shocks to the young woman in a desperate bid to restore a heartbeat. The room hushed momentarily, charged with anticipation, as the defibrillator paddles made contact with her chest. In that suspended moment, a surge of electric energy coursed through her, her torso jolting sharply.

Kara hadn’t responded to the trauma team’s resuscitation efforts, and the code blue began to drone on over the ensuing minutes. In a sober acknowledgment of the waning battle against cardiac arrest, the trauma team pivoted with determined urgency to the last resort—a thoracotomy. The room, already charged with the weight of strained hope, shifted into a controlled chaos of preparation. Sterile instruments gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights as Dr Lindsay’s hands steady with unwavering resolve, incised through the young woman’s chest wall. The air, thick with the scent of antiseptic, carried the palpable tension of a final stand for the team’s beautiful young patient. As the chest cavity opened, revealing the intricate anatomy beneath, the trauma team’s focus intensified. Dr Lindsay’s gloved hands worked with practiced precision, navigating the delicate balance between desperation and expertise. Kara’s eyes remained wide open, a silent plea for the invasive efforts to tip the scales back in her favor. With a collective nod of agreement, the team charged the internal paddles, positioning the large, spoon shaped objects around Kara’s fluttering heart, delivering a shock. Kara’s toes curled at the far end of the table in response to the electric jolt, wrinkling the soles of her size 7 feet. The shock failed to restart her heart. In the disheartening persistence of cardiac arrest, the trauma team, armed with determination but facing the harsh reality of medical futility, administered several more shocks with the internal defibrillator paddles.

In the relentless grip of a protracted cardiac arrest, the trauma team, persistently wielding the internal defibrillator paddles, faced the disheartening realization that their efforts weren’t ameliorating the situation. The room, once charged with the fervor of resuscitative attempts, settled into a palpable silence. Dr Lindsay, hands now marked by the weight of futile intervention, reluctantly acknowledged the stark truth revealed by the fixed and dilated pupils—the irreversible toll of time elapsed without a pulse. For 25 agonizing minutes, the young woman’s heart had resisted reanimation, stubbornly clinging to ventricular fibrillation. The trauma team faced the harsh reality of medical futility, ceasing their efforts, surrendering to unyielding v-fib. The announcement of time of death hung in the air, a final acknowledgment of the team’s failed efforts. In the aftermath of the ceaseless struggle, the young woman lay in a haunting stillness, her wide open eyes bearing witness to the profound silence that now enveloped the room. Despite calling time of death, her heart persisted in defiance, a residual twitch within the exposed cavity of her chest. The trauma team, transitioning from resuscitative efforts to the solemn rituals of postmortem care, moved with a reverence tinged with the weight of defeat. Gloved hands, once instruments of intervention, now became instruments of tender closure. As the solemn shroud of postmortem care continued, the trauma team draped the young woman’s still form with a cover, concealing the haunting gaze of her wide open eyes. With a meticulous choreography, they completed the poignant ritual, placing a toe tag on the big toe of her left foot. The tag dangled against the soft, wrinkled soles of her feet, serving as an acknowledgement of a life tragically cut short.

[katsigian]

──── ⁺ ☾⭒⁺˖ ᴏᴄ: ᴠᴀʟᴇɴ ᴋɪɴʟᴀᴡ // ᴅᴀʏᴡᴀʟᴋᴇʀ ⊹ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴀᴄᴛᴏʀ ⊹ ᴀʀᴇꜱ ꜱʏꜱᴛᴇᴍꜱ

"Ain't no rest for someone wicked, so I don't get no rest anymore."

──── ⁺ ᴄʏʙᴇʀᴘᴜɴᴋ 2077 ➸ 80/∞

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛ // ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ // ɴᴏ ᴀɪ

[Early 2078 - Night Corp and other Underworld Conclaves: Part 1] [It was a party like any other rich party he'd been to. Nothing special save for how expensive they were. These corporate types were boring; he preferred something a little more rough around the edges. A party with the potential for a bar fight, the potential for blood. This swanky charade didn't cut it. Unfortunately, Valen was paid more than handsomely to attend it.

Tonight, he was a shadow. A ghost slipping in and out of the finely dressed crowds all compacted into the small marina club. Meant to watch, to learn, to act if able and required. Tonight, he was hunting. Even if it didn't look as if he was.

Sipping from his champagne glass as he weaved through crowds, searching for a specific person. The only information he'd been given is the target's name and that they're attached to NightCorp. And that they weren't entirely human. The client, who goes by Harper, was insistent that it be Valen, said he wouldn't work with anyone else. It had to be him. Something about the client piqued his interest, something tugged on the back of his neck. So Valen accepted the job.

That client was here with him at this party, some type of corporate magnate himself with ties to a company that dealt with organ transplants and transportation. Valen didn't understand the fancy medical jargon, but he did understand a front when he saw one. It wasn't just organ transplants, they were hiding something behind all that paperwork and he was interested in finding out what. That intuitive gut feeling kept pointing him towards something else, something about Harper.

"Found anything interesting?" Speak of the devil. Harper appeared at Valen's shoulder, speaking quietly. Dressed in an all black sequin suit and glancing about them nervously.

"Nothing." Valen replied, keeping his demenor calm and as if he belonged there. "Except-" he glanced over at his client "-that Night Corp buys cheap fucking champagne."] To be cont'd

[ficfanatictrf]

Could I get something happy for viktor, like let's say his s/o is a the medical feild and after a lot of work they somehow found a way to cure his Lung sickness. So he didn't like..die? I hope that makes sense, THANK YOU

The Epiphany

Summary: When a solution is found

Warnings: Don't think there are any. Simple fluff, lots of science jargon that I tried to limit to keep from being too boring. I wrote this rather quickly cause I was just too excited - I seriously love the area of study I am in (Human Biology)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It had all started from a passing comment from a Professor, explaining how the body knew exactly what cells to attack or leave alone. You had asked the question to the Professor after class, one why some illnesses were able to run rampant without the body doing much to stop them before they were causing serious harm. And it all boiled down to one thing. 

The virus hid inside the DNA of other cells. 

And so you had begun your deep dive into something you had never believed you would have spent any time on, but as the months progressed and every step brought you closer to your goal, you continued the painfully slow process…all the while you watched as your dearest friend was withering away. You couldn’t tell him what you were doing, if it all led to a dead end, you would never forgive yourself for getting his hopes up just to dash them later. 

You were nearing the end of the sixth year of you working on the project as you headed into your lab. You had gotten Professor Heimerdinger to give you a special lab, specifically making sure that the people who had access to the lab didn’t include Viktor. 

As much as you adored him, would want his brain at times, you would not present this to him till you had enough proof. 

So as you came in, sitting down at your desk to look over the tests that had been set to run that night, it was all normal. This was what you did everyday, set up tests that would take hours to get back, come in the next day to see the results and create new tests, new ideas before having to leave it for hours once more. 

Only, as you glanced over the first few sheets you realized that this was not like any other day. This was THE day! 

You could feel your heart pounding out of your chest, quickly looking to see that the same results were on each of the papers for each test you had done. That the results were consistent, the control being the only thing that spiked which meant the test was also working properly and that this wasn’t a false negative. 

In your haste you grabbed everything you could think that you would need, shoving it all into a bag before tearing through the campus to the lab that Viktor and Jayce shared. 

As you entered, you saw exactly what you were expecting and still it didn’t hurt any less. 

Viktor weakened form, how tired he always looked, the tissues nearby that you knew would contain blood. And yet, as you bolted inside, his gaze only turned towards you with a kindness in them that only he could have. And as he went to welcome you in, you cut him off to hold up one of the results you had just looked over. 

“I can tell you now” You said, the understanding quickly flashing in Viktor’s eyes before he reached hastily to get you a chair to sit down on. 

“Then come, come. I have been looking forward to this. Always so secretive about your work” He teased, before already he was trying to take the paper from your hand that you pulled away with a frown. 

As you sat down you took a few breaths, trying to steady yourself mentally as you went into your explanation. Viktor would want to know the science behind this, not just the end result. 

“You said before that the lung virus that spreads in the undercity was one that liked to go unnoticed until suddenly you were dying from it. So it made me wonder if perhaps this was a disease that would lay dormant in the body like the herpes virus or how chickenpox comes back later in life as shingles? Both involve a virus putting its own DNA into the DNA of other cells, which is why it goes dormant for a time before suddenly showing up one day. When that cell dies, the virus's DNA is released once more.” 

Viktor nodded along slowly, it was up to date on this information. This wasn’t really new, but he was wanting to allow you to take the conversation where it needed to go. 

“Well, it was in the early stages, but I heard of another person who was using CRISPR to highlight different parts in cells to try and create new cell and animal models. But, it got me thinking…what if I could find the part of the DNA, that extremely huge list of code and find the part that was the virus’s DNA. I could highlight it, mark it as something harmful to the body and then-” 

“The body’s own immune system would get rid of the virus…not only the virus but the cells harboring the virus…” Viktor ended, slowly leaning back in his chair as he tried to take in what you were saying. 

You nodded, finally reaching into your bag to start pulling out all the papers that you had brought with you. 

“These are all the other trials that I’ve done, we were working on mice but this was the one that would say yes or no if it was time to head to human trials. And Viktor, today every single one of them- every fucking one of them tested negative for the virus. They all had it last night, but today they tested negative.” 

He took the papers slowly from your hand, reading over the printed out information with shaking hands. 

“We can move to human trials, to people who have your disease, to you! Viktor, I am almost certain that with this…I…I can cure you. It’s been what I’ve been working towards for years and finally I can tell you” Standing up straighter, you pulled out the final paper. On it was the exact chemical combination that was used in this. Holding it up you felt your own hands trembling, finally achieving the thing you had been working on for years. 

“This is my gift to you, so that I can confess with it. I love you Viktor…I love you and I think I can cure you” 

Everything for a moment was still, neither of you moving as you both were waiting for the other to make a move. Yet, as Viktor slowly reached out to take the paper in your hand, you watched as he completely missed and then ended up falling out of his chair. 

“Oh shit, are you alright?” 

Helping the man sit up, you were surprised to find the man laughing, not sure as to why falling would be funny. 

“Well, that makes it clear this is no dream.” He chuckled softly, one of his hands reaching up to cradle your cheek in his hand. 

“Thank you” Was whispered, his forehead resting against your own. “When I test negative I will respond to your…declaration. But for now…I suppose, I am in your care.” 

“I suppose you are, it is my study after all” You teased back, though it was mostly to hide the embarrassment you felt at Viktor not rejecting you…but also not accepting either. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The next few weeks had been hell for Viktor. As much as you were proud of your work, it did come with the fact that it needed the human body’s immune system being at its top shape to work. With how tired and worn out his immune system was, he had been put onto a diet plan, a sleep plan, a work out plan…all things that felt like ripping teeth out when it came to Viktor. 

Yet, as the fourth week came to an end, the treatments that you needed to do as well as the different plans to help his immune system best it could, you had seen the changes to how often VIktor was coughing. 

And then finally five weeks into the treatment, Viktor looked over the results of his own testing as he had said that he ‘felt good about this one’. You waited, a little peeved that he was taking over your own study in such a Viktor way. 

“Would you have dinner with me tonight?” 

That was until he suddenly asked you that. 

“...w-what?” 

You looked for his meaning from his expression, but all you got was a kind and warm smile. 

“I told you, once I test negative I would respond. Well- “ He held up the paper with a grin. “I am negative. I am responding and I would like to take you out to dinner and was hoping tonight would be alright?” 

Standing up, the man fixed his suit before heading towards the door. 

“And don’t try to be cute when it comes to who is paying. You literally saved my life, anytime we eat together I am paying. I’ll pick you at 7, there are some things I need to do” And with that he was gone, you left sitting in your lab as your friend…boyfriend? You weren’t even sure you had left. 

But, as you looked outside, you saw exactly what Viktor had been needed to do. As soon as the man was far enough away, you watched as he just screamed. Screamed into the sky with everything he had. 

Screamed from the pain, the anger, the injustice of it all. Screaming because he hadn’t died from this illness, that he was free from its hold, that it wouldn’t take him. And screaming because he could - his lungs would always have some damage from the virus, but it was now clean. 

And so he screamed, screamed until he couldn’t scream anymore.

[theglitchywriterboi]

DO ANY OF YOU WORK IN THE MEDICAL FIELD I JUST HAD A BANGER [probably already been done before but idrc] IDEA FOR A BOOK BUT IT TAKES PLACE AT A HOSPITAL & IVE NEVER WORKED IN ONE NOR HAVE I STAYED AT ONE FKR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME

The MCs are both doctors, more specifically beginner interns & rivals.

Everything I know about working in a hospital comes from Scrubs the T.V. show 🤒

The medical aspect isn't TOO important to the story, but when medical jargon comes up [or hell, hospital employee/intern étiquette. The extent of which I know is: Be nice to nurses, don't say quiet/boring, & that's all I can think of off the top of my head] I want it to semi make sense so people working in the field don't get dealt intense psychic damage from reading...

So it any of y'all have tips, advice, resources, etc whatever let me know [I thought of the idea right before bed so I'm gonna do my own research tomorrow 🙏🙏🙏]

[lostmelodies]

y’know how twins often have similar personality traits that get expressed in different ways as they grow older??

I think leo and donnie both have a fascination for highly technical things. donnie’s manifests itself clearly in his tech: computers, robotics, electronics, etc. for leo, his is more medically and biologically focused. he becomes the medic because he thinks the way bodies move and work is so cool. his athleticism contributes to this and he likes pushing his physical limits just to see what they are.

what’s crazy about all of this is that their interests rarely overlap. they don’t care about the other’s interests at all. leo gets bored of donnie talking about his most recent invention 5 seconds into the tech jargon. donnie gets physically ill at the mention of bone and ligaments.

it’s all just funny to me. Dum dums.

[palpipeen]

CC-3636 Rebels!Wolffe x Reader: Old Men, Old Habits

You're one of many medics for the Rebellion. Sort of. And a retired commander keeps turning up hurt despite your warnings that you’ll keep him on light duty if this keeps up. You're not sure what makes things worse - that you both hate each other’s guts, or that you kind of want to fuck him. Rating: R (For injuries and language) Warnings: Brief description of injuries (compound fracture, not detailed), illness, mention of blood transfusion, Wolffe being a grumpy old man, sexual tension if you squint, SOME angst bc Wolffe is suffering from injuries/a brief infection, the writer doesn't know medical jargon/procedures so that's a warning in itself too Reader is AFAB But pronouns are not used Word Count: 6829 AN: Welp, it's Wolffe Time Babies. When I haven't been working on OC fic planning and Pretending I Do Not See Part7 and 8 of Caf Delivery Service, I've been working on this. The premise of this is just Reader and Wolffe getting to know each other, and I don't know how many parts there will be. Just that this has been a lot of fun so far, so I hope y'all enjoy it too! Part 1 || Part 2 || Part ????

Year Ten, Day 182 after joining the Rebellion

Never a dull moment on base. Most days that just means hearing second-hand reports about the latest attempt to open up trade routes, what squadrons are training up a new recruit, and mourning our losses in whatever ways we can. Some days, that means one unfortunate bastard has to deal with another unfortunate bastard on their worst day. Today, I played both parts. Wolffe went and fucked himself up. Again. I’m glad he’s alive - so I can strangle him when he tries to fuck around and find out again.

“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

I know some of you wanted to be just on the Caf Delivery Service tag so if you want me to remove you from this tag, LMK! If you want me to add you to the taglist for this series also lmk in the replies or in a DM!

[starqueensthings]

Summary: yesterday's events on the combat base are forgotten amidst a turbulent morning, until a surprise at work single-handedly ensures forgetting anything about that place, or that person, would be near impossible. Rating/WC: all chapters are rated 16+ for mature themes unless stated otherwise. 6508 words. WARNINGS: none really... allusions of anxiety but nothing potent. Some suggestive language. A/N: This chapter is a little more dialogue heavy than some of the others... hopefully y'all are okay with that. My brain also did that thing with those perfectionist tendencies and made me read it so many times looking for errors that words just simply arent words anymore. If you see typos, passive verbs, or run on sentences... no you don't. OH ALSO, DONT FORGET FLIMSI MEANS PAPER. I am starting to sprinkle in a lot more Star Wars jargon! PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD LINKED BELOW FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY BEFORE PROCEEDING.

FOREWORD | MASTER | PREV | AO3

(1) “ Is this the long overdue engagement brunch you’ve been promising me for weeks? Or is it the galaxy’s most extravagant bribe?”   

That sharp intonation rang around the confines of those empty kitchen corners; the abandoned holopad awaiting attention atop that stone counter suddenly ignited amid an effort to alert that deserted room of an incoming written transmission, though its song and dance remained both unheard and unseen by its preoccupied owner still hidden two rooms over. Bent double in the lingering humidity of that tiny refresher whilst careless motions from toweled hands laboriously attempted to towel dry that impossibly thick mane of ebony hair, June sang loudly in tandem to the song issuing from the radio perched impetuously beside the sink, hips bobbing with a sense of near-awkward confidence, the nature of her back aching stoop utterly robbing those movements of the restraint and grace she typically offered the art of dance.  

Morning showers were largely atypical for someone whose work schedule demanded they rouse amidst the earliest hours of each aborning rotation— a time unknown to most; a reverently ephemeral gap between the dark and incipient dawn, when even the most practiced of night owls submitted to the need for repose and burrowed themselves securely into their beds; it remained Coruscant’s (and it’s egregious overpopulation’s) only hope of witnessing something that even bore slight resemblance to serenity, as the moon offered the sky one last farewell kiss before its radiant counterpart stretched its arms upward from below the horizon.  

No. Typically, a dozen hours spent confined in the frigidity of the hospital’s many operating rooms saw June near-desperately seeking the reinvigorating ablution of a hot shower upon her return home in the evening, granting the rest of her apartment only a momentary glance to affirm its regularity before leaping urgently into the sanctity of that steaming, tiled temple. But every eighth Benduday saw her routine inverted and the otherwise implacable anarchy of the Surgical Floor brought to a screeching halt, as all droids bearing the subclassification of ‘Medical Assist Personnel’ were required to adhere to the mandatory maintenance policy, including: circuitry inspection, processor recalibration, servo lubrication, and databank encryption. And due to the nature of the sophisticated machinery of which the hospital housed, and the innovative array of medical intervention it was subsequently able to provide whilst accompanied by those invaluable, artificially-intelligent companions, the temporary shutdown mandated that all surgeries, not categorized as Class-A Urgent, were deferred until the process reached completion. 

Despite having participated in this necessary interruption countless times, June continued to find that shift in routine quite irksome; the chance to amble around her apartment completely unhurried felt less like the rare opportunity for a languid morning, and more like she was being subjected to a timeout of which she’d done nothing to warrant, eyes darting impatiently toward the wall chrono near-regularly to gauge just how much time she’d managed to waste amidst the myriad of inconsequential tasks utterly failing to keep her occupied. And though that abeyance granted her the unfathomable privilege of actually sipping her morning caf and cherishing its flavour atop her tongue (instead of the hasty, throat scalding gulps she typically took before dashing from the kitchen), that unwelcome stillness walked hand-in-hand with the promise of an overactive mind perpetually threatening to resurface malignant past experiences in that complete void of distraction… her most valuable tool.  

Chest heaving neath the sheer exertion of pulling scrub pants up thighs still partially damp and tumid from that hot shower, she trod breathlessly into the kitchen and tossed her lunch bag atop the counter beside the stove. From the pantry in the corner, she extracted: the last of her favorite peanut granola bars, a packet of assorted fruit flavoured gummy snacks (shamelessly intended for juvenile consumption, though June had long-since proven to wholly lack the mental fortitude required to leave the store without them), and a foil-topped, styrofoam cup of dehydrated instant-noodles, all of which she threw pell-mell into that insulated tote without even a glance. 

(2) “Okay, but real talk... Are the strudels fair game? Because the one with sprinkles has been begging me to eat it for the last twenty mins and my willpower is fading fast.” 

A shrill chirp from across the kitchen purloined her attention as she reached to collect a clean fork from the drawer at her hip and drop it carelessly atop that pitiful troupe of snacks, the screen of that abandoned device strobing anew with another desperate attempt to inform its owner of her continued negligence. 

“What in Maker’s name…” June mumbled under her breath, brows furrowing neath a potent perplexity as she studied the pair of enigmatic messages she’d unknowingly snubbed. Brunch? Strudels? Sprinkles?   

The once-intentional grip around her beloved holo loosened as she spun back to face the refrigerator, wrist drooping as her focus shifted, narrowed eyes quickly locating the flimsi calendar affixed onto that gleaming appliance by a pair of decorative, faux leaf magnets. Yet, with each second her gaze danced upon those thirty-five blank squares, her mind whirred atop a frantic need to try and remember some lost premise – a strudel-worthy engagement of which she’d likely agreed to participate, but had wholly forgotten to jot down whilst in jumping the hurdles of Challa’s newly bequeathed educational directive. Perhaps one of the nurses was celebrating a birthday? Possibly today marked an anniversary of sorts? An acquaintance from another floor celebrating tenure, or retirement? A student, graduating? Or could it be that the surgical department had managed to notch yet another stupendous milestone into their belts, and the President had been kind enough to reward each of the staff with a sprinkle-covered pastry? 

The thought alone was enough to tug her from that torpor, a dubious snort escaping her nose as she placed her holopad back on the counter and zipped her lunchbag closed; the day the surgical staff was granted a token of appreciation for their unremitting dedication and hard work, would be the same day every Bantha in the galaxy suddenly sprouted wings and forewent gravity to voyage through hyperspace with the Purrgil. 

“Welp,” she grunted. “Whatever this shindig is, here’s hoping it’s not a potluck because I am not sharing my gummies.”

She delayed her departure only long enough to run some organic seed oil through the ends of her hair and hastily braid those unruly locks into a rope, draping it over her shoulder in an effort to prevent the dreaded “skyway tangles”; a label her good friend Alda has once adorned to the abhorrent series of knots that inevitably formed in one’s hair after a trip through the blustering skylanes overhead. 

Barely a minute later saw June emerging from the lobby of her building, doors clunking shut behind her and a sigh of content leaving her lips as she crossed the grounds of the apartment complex toward the parking lot where her speeder slumbered in the void of its call to action. Bearing witness to the way the sun bathed every corner of that stone walkway in its midday effulgence was yet another infrequent privilege allotted by the suspension of her routine, as noon hour typically saw her stooped over a gurney in one of the many, frigid operating rooms. But the breeze had yet to assimilate that spring sun’s inherent warmth, and whizzing through that skyway grid, high above the various peaks and gables of Coruscant's tallest roofs and highest towers, had a series of relentless shivers rolling down her spine, hands beginning to tremble atop those handlebars as she eagerly directed her bike toward the hangar door where hospital staff housed their vehicles for the duration of their shift. 

A trooper clad in a kit of white and scarlett stood to greet her as she approached that viridescent rayshield, appearing from his hidden perch behind the tinted windows of the security booth of which he took refuge in the absence of intrusion, that shiny and unmarred plastoid creaking as he sunk into one hip and folded his arms over that red, painted chest. 

"Slept in, didja doc?” he asked as she slowed to a halt in front of him, the vocoder in that familiar bucket utterly failing to conceal the teasing lilt in his voice. 

“Slept in?” June snorted while reaching to extract her ID card from the pocket on her thigh, near-instantly noting the white crown decal circling the dome of his red helmet. “Me? Come on, King. You oughta know me better than that by now. I wouldn’t know sleep if it danced naked in front of me.”

Though his eyes remained perfectly veiled by the opacity of that dark visor, there was no mistaking the way that trooper intentionally and infuriatingly spurned the extension of her offering as she held her clearance card outward, her lips instantly pursing upon watching those armour-clad arms tighten the entanglement atop his chest in a motion of uninhibited obstinance.   

“And what if I danced naked in front of you?” 

She hesitated for only a breath before a contentious groan escaped her lips, posture slumping amid a swelling impatience she simply could not corral as that question spilled from his lips bathed in the promise that he would not permit her to exit this exchange without suffering yet another round of his relentless advances. 

“What then, hmm?”

“Well first I’d vomit,” June snarked, response free from of the reticence that teaching on the base had begun to imbue in her, hand now vigorously shaking the card between her fingers neath a desperate attempt to attune his focus away from this imminent, noisome standoff and back toward the task of which he remained honour-bound to complete. “Then I’d probably throttle you to within an inch of your life for subjecting me to such cruel and unusual torture without cause, or have you forgotten my response from the last time we broached this particular subject?” 

“Can’t blame a guy for being persistent, can ya?” he attested, shoulders shifting briefly toward his concealed ears while he continued to ignore her increasingly frenetic motions. 

“No,” she grumbled, reinvigorating the violent flap of her hand between them, eyes departing the smirk hidden behind that bucket to affix themselves on the little plastoid card amid a silent plea that he save the unpleasant repartee and simply do his job . “But I can blame a guy for making me late–” 

“Then make this quick. Agree to a date.” 

“I don’t have time to socialize, King," June groused atop a heavy sigh. “Now or later, so can you just scan the card please?”

“Just one date, doc. That’s all I need to convince y–”

“No. It was no last time, and it’ll be no next time. Now scan the dam–”

“Hmph... someone’s feeling extra feisty today,” he cooed following a deep, throaty chuckle, tipping forward to within inches of her scowling expression and wholly rebuking the way she rapped the edge of her ID against his vambrace. “Lucky for you, I’m into the bratty attitu–”  

“Scan the kriffing card, King.”

Her hissed demand elicited nothing from that coy trooper but a small snort, arms slowly unfurling and head shaking neath an amusement of which she would never share. 

“You know, I would,” he purred, sightlessly snatching the wriggling card and turning it over in those gloved hands, fingers trailing tauntingly around its perimeter, “If I thought it would accomplish anything. This is an access card for the combat base… It’s not going to do you any good at GRMF."  

Her stomach plummeted, gaze darting frantically toward that glossy duraplas square between his kevlar-clad digits, dread surging through her veins at first sight of that white Republic cog emblem only partially hidden neath his fingertips. 

“Kriff.” 

“So how about that date?” King probed again, flicking that now useless ID into her lap and securing those arms atop his chest again. “Any more appealing now that I can save you a trip home?”

“I don’t live that far,” she snarled at him. 

“Suit yourself,” he sang atop a sigh of feigned remorse. "See you in half an hour, minimum . That midday Coruscant traffic can get pretty clogged, so here’s hoping you’re not pressed for time or anything. Being a doctor and all, I’m sure time is of no concern–”

“You're nauseating, you know that?” she grumbled under her breath, only-barely containing the potent need to tip her head back and groan to the sky about her own shameful negligence. “Would it be enough to say I’ll consider it?” 

“I’ll take what I can get.” Though his expression remained concealed by the goading shield of that red and white bucket, the snicker that rattled through the vocoder was bathed in a disturbing sense of success, and its sound forced her to near-instantly swallow back a sudden guttural heave.

June wasted no time engaging the throttle and surging forward the moment that humming green barrier disintegrated upon the prod of a button somewhere atop his on-person control system, and she offered him nothing more than a transient glare before rounding the first corner in that overladen speeder lot. 

By the time she neared the dueling pair of sliding doors acting a vestibule for the surgical floor, Jacoba’s pair of arcane messages had long since-vanished from her awareness. Instead, every stride into and out of those clanging and chiming elevators saw her fighting to repress the sickening blend of embarrassment and revulsion still simmering in her gut. It wasn’t until she stuck her nose into the staff room to ensure an absolutely vital pot of caf sat gurgling on the counter, did she remember the expectation of some party . But that austere room remained as prosaic and unassuming as ever; a myriad of lunch containers battled to occupy the limited square footage in that shared fridge as they always did, a vast collection of mugs had convened in the sink awaiting the bath they so desperately needed (a task that, rightfully, June should have initiated, as at least half had been soiled and stained by her inveterate caf addiction). Yet, any semblance of celebration remained absent; not a balloon to be blown, not a streamer to be seen, not a noise maker to be found.

“Hm,” she grunted, shoving a hand into the depths of that fridge amid an attempt to ensure those promised, sprinkle-covered-strudels weren’t simply concealed behind several bulky lunch bags. Though, aside from a sandwich whose bread had either been baked with blue milk, or had been abandoned to the callous corners of that shelf for so long that it had grown a particularly fuzzy layer of mold, there was nothing of peculiarity.

“Meh, whatever,” she mumbled to herself as she departed for the open ward, vowing to forgo this mystifying investigation and simply address that duo of ciphered messages when she reached her office.  

The ward itself entirely juxtaposed the bustle of the hospital’s several dozen other floors; as to not completely paralyze that symbiotic metacommunity, each ward adhered to a certified rotation that dictated what day of which week their allotted droid personnel received the temporary reset mandate. Since Lumi was required to comply with the strict policy, June did not bother pausing at the droid station to rouse him, instead veering around the gargantuan welcome desk toward the hidden hall that housed their office spaces. 

But barely a trio of steps passed underfoot down the secluded corridor before that once-placated confusion flared anew. Her always clutter-free desktop coming into focus only short strides down that quiet hall, that gleaming table now wholly replete with an odd arrangement of, what appeared to be …packages, and it was a collection of which she never would have permitted to belitter that cherished space for any longer than necessary. 

“What the–” she queried upon nearing the threshold, lips falling apart and brows contracting as those blue eyes scanned the unheralded assortment heaped in front of her. 

Five. Five oversized, kraft takeout boxes lay in a ceremonious crescent arrangement atop that white surface, their lids erected to expertly expose their myriad of delectable contents. Scones, muffins, biscuits, strudels, cookies, tarts, several different fruit and nut spreads; an entire bakery enclosed in that collection of containers. 

June had never seen such an appetizing display in her entire life, especially not arranged so decorously atop her desk, and her mouth began to water upon first sight of what appeared to be a perfectly baked cheddar tea biscuit nestled delicately in the corner of the middle box. Yet, it was not the exuberant display sending her nostrils aflare and a euphoric sigh from those gaping lips, but the unfamiliar, yet, glorious aromatics of a flavored caf, its enamoring perfume emanating from a spout-adorned takeout box just behind that scrumptious abundance. Flanked between a tall stack of emerald green, disposable cups and pile of matching flimsi napkins, a rolling pillar steam danced through from a small exhaust hole in that kraft container, filling that cramped corners of that office space with an intoxicating redolence of which she’d never known.

“Pastries?” June whispered, frozen atop that threshold. 

“Yes, I ate the strudel!” Jacoba needlessly admitted the moment June appeared, evidence of her transgressions still apparent by the powdered sugar lingering in the crevasses of her dark lips. “I couldn't help myself!”

“What is all this?” June asked her friend, the handles of both her lunch bag and her purse slipping down her forearm as she gestured toward the obscure feast in front of her. 

“You tell me,” Jac answered with a shrug. “What are we celebrating? Or, if it's a bribe, what do you want?” 

“We're not celebrating anything. I didn’t order this…” A soft, incredulous chortle escaped June's lips as she absently let her cargo thunk to the floor at her feet, the notion that Jacoba may have legitimately believed her to order such an extensive collection of finely crafted baked goods was near-laughable. 

“You didn’t order this stuff?” Jacoba probed immediately, eyes widening in something near-horror. “As in, did not? Please tell me you’re joking? I’ve already eaten like four pastries.”

“Of course I did not,” June snorted. “Why the kriff would I order 1600 different kinds of muffins, Jacoba?” 

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t done crazier shit, Juniper,” her best friend snarked back at her with a small roll of her eyes. “Remember the cheese fondue fiasco last year?”

“You always have to bring that up, don't you?” 

June eased somewhat apprehensively into that cramped but dazzlingly bright room, hands finding their perch atop her hips and a small sigh leaving her nose as she reached her desk and peered down at the unexpected assembly. “ Hutchie’s ,” she murmured, reaching for the box furthest on the left and trailing her finger along the ornate, gold signature adorning the underside of each lid. “Never heard of it.”

“Me neither,” Jac chimed in, wiping the remnants of that sweet indulgence from her lips with the sleeve of her cardigan. “They make a kriffing mean eclair though.” 

“Well what do we do with it?” June asked, retracting her hand from its yearning hover over the tea biscuit still silently vying for her attention in that dainty, doily swaddle. “Should we try and find who it’s meant for? Probably for the neonatal ward. They're always getting stuff delivered.” 

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Jacoba objected with a small shake of the head. “The delivery guy asked for you by name. Malya said he showed up at the welcome desk looking for a “ Dr. June ”, so she led him here. That’s kinda why I thought eating it would be fin–” 

“Ah. Good morning, girls.” 

June spun at the sudden sound of her boss’s drawling voice, turning to find Challa framed in the doorway with nostrils aflare and chest twitching atop a series of deep, inquisitive sniffs.

“It’s noon, Challa,” Jac corrected him with a smirk, gesturing with a small nod toward the window opposite where that midday radiance continued to flood every corner of the room. 

“So it is,” he assented, offering only a fleeting glance toward the watch strapped to his lissome wrist before his gaze fell upon the flagrant display of food. “Goodness, what an exhibition. It smells delightful. What precisely is the cause for celebration?” 

“Don't know,” June answered with a shrug, having both posed and denied some semblance of that question several times over the course of the last hour and had yet to find even a fragment of an answer. “I was kinda hoping you might, because neither of us were let in on the secret. We have no clue where it came from.” 

“How unusual,” Challa hummed, though his expression offered nothing but insouciance and mild amusement as if such an oversized and mysterious delivery was simply run-of-the-mill. “It bears no connection to me, unfortunately. Though, just as well– I could not procure the wine you requested. Apparently it’s an opulence not offered at local establishments. I did, however, manage to acquire a Cleanser Tube for your apartm–”  

“You did!?” June gasped, jaw falling open. “Seriously? No way! ”

“What!?” Jacoba protested as Challa pulled a single piece of white flimsi from its clamp neath his arm. “She gets a raise and a fancy new washing ma–”

“Contact the comm channel listed to schedule delivery,” Challa advised June as she collected the document, blatantly ignoring the pugnacious outcry from behind the sugar covered desk on the right. “And pay no attention to the fee listed near the bottom; this is a gift courtesy of GRMF, but it’s imperative the hospital’s parsimony remain intact so please keep this between us, June.”

“Of course!” She answered completely void of coherent thought, an ebullience incited by the unexpected ingratiation sending her near leaping on the spot and cradling that sheet of flimsi against her chest as if its top-secret context bore something of extreme high value. “Eeeee! This is so exciting, Challa! Thank you!” 

Something near an affectionate smile topped those thin lips, though he simply raised a hand to politely deflect her tittering gratitude, waiting until she’d expelled the last of her delight before letting the emergence of a darkened tone diminish the merriment in the room. 

“June,” he began neath that characteristic severity. “I am most eager to initiate the continuation of yesterday’s discussion, but there are a couple pressing matters I must first address. When you have a moment, dissect your surgical schedule and assign me as a second surgeon to whichever case you think might offer us the promise of an undisturbed discussion.”  

June offered a nod of understanding, eyes quickly shifting to locate the datapad atop that encumbered desk so she may accede to his request as soon as he departed. Once those magnificent Lekku vanished down the hall, June near-threw herself into the chair behind her desk with an elated sigh, gazing near-glassy eyed down at that flimsi still pinched in her fingers. 

“I hope you know I’ll be doing my laundry exclusively at your place now,” Jac groused from her seat whilst reaffixing her attention to the holocomputer screen currently displaying a particularly nasty looking intracerebral hemorrhage.  

“Yeah right,” June snorted, carefully folding that cherished contract and tucking it into her purse for safe keeping. “You’ve never done laundry a day in your life, first of all. Second, the chances of you breaking my new Cleanser with your atrociously beaded clothes is, unfortunately for you, way too high.” 

“Thechancesofyoubreakingmynewcleanser,” Jacoba mocked in a sickeningly childish voice atop another roll of her dark eyes. 

“Oh whatever… have another snack, Jealous Judy,” June snorted, reaching into the nearest box and extracting what looked and smelled to be a perfectly flakey buttertart, wrapping it in an emerald green napkin and placing it on the desk at her friends elbow next to a steaming cup of that enchanting, flavoured caf. 

“I don’t know exactly what this heavenly nectar is, but I'm about to drink all of it," June advised the room at large moments later, greedily watching that stream of shockingly fragrant, dark liquid pool in the green cup she'd placed in front of her; several deep, slow inhales near-instantly filling what felt like every corner of her being with an aroma so pleasant, she was unlikely to ever forget that intoxicating blended aroma of spiced apple and mild vanilla. 

“You have a keratoplasty in an hour,” Jacoba warned. “Maybe wait to overdose on caf until the jitters won’t permanently blind someone.”

Finally conceding to that herb-infused tea biscuit’s relentless call to be devoured, June ripped off large chunk of that fluffy dough and jammed it eagerly into her mouth, jaw immediately mutinying against the overzealous portion she was now demanding it mash as she reached to extract her work shoes from under the desk, but hardly a breath after she’d lifted her foot to force her toes into that black sneaker, the distressing sound of panicked, laboured breathing met her ears. 

“You okay, Gra’ta?” Jacoba asked as June’s gaze darted upward toward the door where a frantic looking nurse stood stooped in the threshold, one hand desperately seeking stability with a trembling grip on her knee while the other clamped itself atop her heaving chest. 

“Yeah,” Gra’ta near-wheezed, reaching toward her neck to gingerly trail a quivering hand across the first harrowing signs of a dark contusion erupting neath that blue Pantoran skin. “The guy in 11S just had me locked in a chokehold. It took everything Pherto had to get him off me.” 

“What?!” June gasped, black sneaker now forgotten and dangling uselessly in her hand. “Maker, are you okay? Why didn’t you call a code white?” 

“I'm fine,” she answered, though despite attempting to flippantly wave away their continued concern, there was no ignoring the mist forming atop her golden eyes as the need to expel that sudden surge of adrenaline robbed her of the immutable composure she so proudly upheld. “Everything is fine now. He just woke up from a mitral valve replacement, and the–” 

“The post procedure psychosis hit,” Jac finished for her. “Kriff, what is it with cardiac procedures and the idiopathic delirium?” 

“No one knows,” June chimed sombrely, shoving her foot into her shoe and hastily tying a knot in the laces. “But immediate physical therapy and pain control have been proven pivotal in helping it dissipate.” 

“Pherto’s on it,” Gra’ta confirmed atop a heavy sigh. “Listen, I have to run but I was supposed to bring this over a while ago. I found this on the floor behind the welcome desk, June. It’s got your name on it. Malya said it likely fell off one of the boxes that arrived earlier?” 

From the breast pocket of her scrub top, Gra’ta extracted a small dark green card, that familiar gold foiled signet gleaming in the light only briefly before disappearing again as she handed it across the desk. June took it enthusiastically, heart leaping as her fingers closed around the possible answer to this unforeseen strudel mystery. 

“Wait!” she called as Gra’ta heaved one last preparatory sigh and turned to admit herself back into chaos. “Take a snack or two before you go.” 

“Thank you,” the nurse smiled, accepting the stack of donuts June had hastily wrapped in a handful of those emerald napkins before disappearing back into the open ward. 

“She’s having a terrible day,” June near-whimpered upon taking her seat again. “Probably been at work less than an hour and already been strang—”

“Open it open it open it open it,” Jac chanted, interrupting the attempt to commiserate and spinning her chair away from her computer, dark eyes alight with something near a manic curiosity as they affixed themselves on the little card now laying next to that half eaten biscuit.  

Though no bigger than the size of a standard business card, for what that tiny envelope lacked in size, it made up ten fold in beauty. That stunning emerald flimsi, glazed with what appeared to be a graphic rendition of a some sort of leaf, shone radiantly in the sun pouring in from behind its current holder. Yet it wasn’t the detail adorning the little gift that captivated and held the attention of the narrowed blue eyes still gazing eagerly in its direction, nor was it the appearance of that same loopy penmanship, curling it’s way delicately around her name, but the truly marvelous wax seal tasked with keeping those contents private. 

“So ritzy,” she breathed, gently running a finger around the perimeter of that solidified gold before fitting the shredded edge of her thumbnail beneath that sparkly wax button and delicately prying it upward. 

The little card she pulled from its swaddle near-perfectly matched the luxury of its housing, though instead of that remarkably ornate penmanship, the message inside lay beneath a somewhat hurried and disjointed scrawl of which she’d never seen before.  

‘June,

I took you at your word and ordered one of every cheese centered snack they had, plus some other things I thought you’d maybe like. Hopefully something in this bunch manages to brighten your day that way you’ve repeatedly brightened mine. ’  

There was no need for a valediction, no need to see the name of the person who had requested and implemented the delivery of this astonishing  gift. It could only be one. There had only been one capable of doming her cheeks in such earnest, only one of whom could incite such a frenzy in her gut. An uncharacteristic giddiness of which no bite upon that bottom lip could stifle saw her hand darting upward to conceal what she could of that betraying grin, eyes flicking back to where that untidy scrawl had shaped her name.

“Who’s it from?” Jacoba demanded through the muffle of what sounded to be a mouthful of pastry number five. “The suspense is killing me.” 

But, much like the appearance of his lopsided smile, that message had near-instantly robbed June of the ability to form coherent thought beyond the unprecedented glee of which his presence seemed to innately bring her, and she offered her best friend’s curiosity nothing but a cogent silence whilst stealing another moment to reread those scrawled sentiments. 

“I’d much prefer real cheese… nothing woo’s me quite like a snack and a hot caf.” 

“I’ll remember that.”

Her jaw shifted ahead a giggle that she only barely corralled behind pursed lips as the image of that teal-painted captain danced across her mind, amber eyes twinkling, mouth hitched slightly toward one ear as he gazed down at her and uttered that promise with a sincerity she’d foolishly doubted in that moment. 

Heat coursed through her veins toward her cheeks as she banished that image from her mind only long enough to peer sideways at the snack beside her. That glorious caf and cheddar biscuit, his fulfilled promise, now lay long-forgotten, and the suddenly invigorated flap-a-bout in her gut had rendered even the thought of attempting another bite, a task of a near-Herculean quality.

His memory had danced across her awareness several times since their unexpected run-in yesterday, since curiosity and instant recognition had sent him back peddling into both the dead-end corridor where she’d gotten herself stranded and back into her life. And though offering the notion any fragment of affirmation only promised to set her hands atremble, there was no denying that a portion of her had attached itself to the idea of him frighteningly quickly and seemingly without hesitation. There was simply just something . Something about the way his eyes surveyed her so softly yet so knowingly, as if he'd somehow learned everything there was to know about her during the span of those two short encounters, and feared none of it. Something about the way that right side heavy smirk appeared as she spoke, as if he entirely understood the intention behind every word that left her lips— as if he simply knew who she was. 

Yet, despite this precipice bringing with it unheralded feelings of which June had never previously permitted herself to entertain, she could not deny it was near-perfectly matched by an apprehension of which her consciousness would simply not relent, and no sooner had her nerves found themselves drunk on that rush of gratitude and affection, did her stomach begin to twist atop an equi-potent reservation… a warning of which she’d long-trained her mind to issue when circumstance had thrust her into the unknown and unsafe territory of potentially reciprocating male affection. 

Despite her hearts best efforts, erupting into a cadence worthy of war as if every powerful beat thundered to recruit the service of her other organs in the battle against the grievously imminent reproval, that excitement quickly dissipated amongst the ominous breeze of which that red flag fluttered. The fact remained, he was a man, and June had spent her entire adult life meticulously fortifying a mentality that promised to keep herself free of them. Desires must remain at only that. These feelings, as intoxicating and ineffable as they were, threatened to pave a road away from the safety of which she’d long ago crafted, and though the soft shifts of his twinkling gaze atop her features seemed to set her very nerves alight in a way they’d never experienced, every beat of that bounding heart in favour of entertaining this possible connection was a rhythmic step toward a vulnerability she’d once sworn to never experience. 

Her eyes unfocussed upon that tiny card, written sentiments blurred by inattention as she clamped her thumbnail between her teeth and began its absentminded destruction.  

“Oh, are we doing that thing again? Where we just ignore each other? Because a heads up would have been nice…”

“No, sorry Jac,” June mumbled, wrenching her gaze from that scrawl and permitting a heavy sigh to steal from her lips. Swallowing upon the realization that attempting to conceal the surging inner conflict from someone who knew her more thoroughly than anyone else in the galaxy, would prove largely ineffective and likely only invite one of Jacoba’s infamous wraths to ensue, so she simply closed that little card and extended it outward so that her friend may ascertain the details first hand. 

Collecting the abandoned cup of caf from the desk and drumming her fingers anxiously atop its side, she watched Jacoba’s narrowed eyes dance rapidly across that beautiful little verdant momento. 

“But this doesn’t even say who it’s from!” her friend exclaimed angrily a mere second later, flicking the apparently useless flimsi haphazardly onto June’s desk. “How are we supposed to kn—”

“It’s from Howzer,” June interrupted, attempting to ignore the way letting her lips wrap their way around the shape of his name had reawoken the butterflies in her stomach, and though she pulled that biscuit toward her amidst an effort to locate any semblance of distraction, it now looked as unappealing as the sandwich in the staff room. 

“Who? ” Jacoba asked bemusedly, and had that sudden plague of emotional duality not rendered June near-ignorant to everything else, the look of unadulterated confusion atop her best friend’s face would have been near-comical, as Jacoba had long-since deemed herself the Queen of Gossip and rarely donned such an expression. 

“A guy—”

“A GUY?!”

”Shhhh!” June demanded in the wake of Jacoba’s incredulous outburst, both sets of eyes quickly darting toward the door to ensure that sudden incredulous blast hadn’t roused any attention. 

“He's a soldier,” June answered somewhat lamely atop her mind’s failed attempt at elucidating exactly who and what Howzer presently was to her. “He was the patient I cauterized after Challa pulled me off that thoracotomy last month. I ran into him on Base yesterday and... well... he was kinda flirting with me I guess.”

“Flirting? ” Jacoba repeated instantly in hiss. 

June near-cowered under the intensity of her friend’s wide-eyed, disbelieving stare; it seemed whatever explanation Jacoba had expected to hear from her, the notion of a possible love-interest had not at all been on the radar.

“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Jac sang quietly, “I know I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, but I don’t think he would have sent cookies to someone that slapped him . So– does that mean that you were flirting back?”

Attempting to hide a portion of that shameful truth, June hid behind a long sip of caf before offering a small shrug. “I don't know,” she admitted atop a repressed sigh, fingers continuing their pointless tap atop that cup. “I didn’t tell him to fuck off, so… maybe? I guess? All I said was, if he wanted to woo me, he'd better do it with snacks.”

“Oh, you're open to people wooing you now, are you?”

“I mean, I don't know,” June repeated in little more than a mumble, something near-shame creeping up her throat and threatening to bring that lonesome bite of biscuit with it. She swallowed and dropped her gaze to the lid of the cup in her hand, a tiny shard of shredded thumbnail loitering where she'd unknowingly ripped and tore that keratin apart amidst her torpor. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jacoba cast another furtive glance toward the door, ensuring this increasingly poignant conversation promised to remain entirely unheard by any unwanted ears lingering in that otherwise quiet corridor. 

“June…” 

“Don’t ‘June’ me. I know it’s insane. I’m trying to igno–”  

“It’s not insane at all,” Jacoba argued quietly, “So shut up and listen.” 

With lips pursed against the autonomic urge to snark back at her best friend’s command, June simply placed her nail back between her teeth and shifted her gaze to her knees. 

“You've been… strong… for a long time, June,” Jacoba spoke soberly, leaning her elbows onto her knees and clasping her fingers together. “You've managed to uphold this conviction— this ‘I hate men’ mentality for nearly a decade. I know why and I don’t blame you, but while I know you think that’s what’s been keeping you safe, it’s also kept you alone. You are as stubborn as you are strong and you know that. If you have any sort of feelings for this Hazlan guy—” 

“Howzer.”

“—Howzer, then why not just lean into it a little bit this time? Just see where it goes?”

“Jac—” June stammered, placing her cup back on the desk in front of her and shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “I shouldn’t. I can’t… and I don’t even think I’d know what to do if I could. ”  

“You're not proposing to the guy,” Jac shrugged, sitting back in her chair. “You don’t really have to do anything. Just don't shut him down. Let him flirt and see where that takes you. If you get a bad vibe from him, cut him loose. A swallow does not a summer make, June. It's been ten years . One foray into the possibility of a relationship is not going to derail the life you’ve made for yourself. Plus, you did four straight years of self-defense… you could probably break every bone in his body if you felt the need.”

FOREWORD | MASTER | PREV | AO3

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[baronessblixen]

Prompt to you or anyone if it takes their fancy (no obligation but thought I’d put out there): Jealous Mulder when a guy pursues Scully, either ex-flame or someone they come across during their work. Would like the other guy to be nice, smart and confident - sorry don’t want older father figure or mentally unstable like XF often had with Scully’s suitors. No interest on scully’s part (msr all the way!) but perhaps some misunderstanding. Not asking for much and ofc creatively take own path 😂🙏🏼

Some jealousy angst but like anon said: MSR all the way. Wc: 2188. Tagging @today-in-fic

Sometimes You Lose, And Sometimes You Win

He knows that he shouldn’t, but he wants to take Scully’s hand and drag her away from here. From him.

Patrick.

The man is taller than him, has a winning smile and is, like Scully herself, a medical doctor. It’s a wonder that there aren’t women swarming him, trying to catch his attention. He’s what people would call a catch. Even Mulder can see it.

He half excepts the nearby police officers to faint when Dr. Patrick Donaghue runs a hand through his thick chestnut hair. He’s long had the suspicion that Scully likes dark hair in a man. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking on his part. Either way, he shouldn’t be seething here, and that guy shouldn’t be flirting. This, after all, is a crime scene and all three of them should be focusing on work.

The other man, however, can’t hear his thoughts or read his expression. He shouldn’t know anything about him but Patrick – please call me Paddy – is of Irish descent and a Catholic to boot. He and Scully have been sharing church stories like candy between them, giggling every once in a while. Mulder can’t even be sure the other man is aware that he’s here, too. So far he only has eyes for Scully. His partner, bless her, nods at the right moments, and a moment ago, even laughed. Okay, he will admit it: Dr. Paddy is funny. Mulder has to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing along with them.

“Mulder? Did you hear a word I just said?” Scully asks him, observing him with her big, wide eyes he loves so much. Eyes Dr. Paddy complimented a moment ago. He is sure Scully isn’t referring to that, though.

“I, um-”

“I hope we’re not boring you,” Patrick says and his voice sounds smooth. There’s a smile on his face and not even a hint of malice. Mulder wants to hate him, but the guy is making it difficult. Very, very difficult. “I don’t get to talk medicine very often. Dana here probably doesn’t either.” The smile he gives her makes Mulder want to punch his perfect jaw.

“No,” he says in a clipped tone. “Dana can do whatever she wants.” It comes out harsher than he intended.

“Well, thank you, Mulder,” Scully says and rolls her eyes, which makes Patrick chuckle. He deflates as he watches Scully and Patrick work side by side, throwing medical jargon around like ping-pong balls. He could throw a curve ball in, but this is a game he doesn’t know how to play. No matter what this is between them, Mulder feels like he’s already lost.

“I’m just gonna,” Mulder starts and it takes a moment for Patrick and Scully to end their own little conversation. Their heads come up in unison. Mulder’s heart crumbles. He has no right to feel left out, to feel jealous of this exchange between Scully and someone they’re working with. But the way they look at him with similar expressions and the way their shoulders touch working side by side makes him swallow hard.

“I’m gonna be over there,” he finishes, arbitrarily pointing into the distance.

“Don’t go too far,” Scully says, putting on new latex gloves. “We might need your expertise.”

Mulder nods, but he doubts that they do.

He was right. They didn’t need him. He felt like an outside, downright like an intruder here at the crime scene, while Scully and the good doctor did all the work. All he could do was watch. He’s lost all interest in the case – it’s in the police’s hands now, he and Scully no longer needed. Just like Dr. Patrick Donaghue, who isn’t quite ready to say goodbye to them just yet.

“How about we catch something to eat?”

“As long as it’s not fish,” Scully says and the two of them laugh, Mulder watching on, wondering what he missed.

“Just an inside joke between Dana and me,” Patrick says, squeezing Mulder’s shoulder as if they were friends and not strangers who met a couple of hours ago. Mulder tries to catch Scully’s eyes but she’s avoiding him. Well, fuck. And now he has to go have dinner with them, probably having to watch them flirt and fall in love right in front of his eyes.

He knows he’s moping as they make their way to a diner that Patrick swears is cozy and serves the best burgers he’s ever eaten. He can’t know that Scully loves burgers, can he? The two make easy conversation and both try to include Mulder in them, but he’s hurt, unable to hide his misguided jealousy, and replies in grunts and one-syllable answers.

The diner is just as Patrick described it. But the cozy atmosphere and the soft cushions on the chairs don’t put Mulder at ease at all. Quite the opposite. Scully keeps leaning into Patrick’s space, smiling so much that he wonders how her cheeks aren’t hurting yet. Mulder wants to make her smile like this. He wants to make her laugh and look at him like she’s looking at Patrick right now. Or at the burger she’s about to devour.

“What do you think?” Patrick asks. “Did I promise too much?” Both men watch Scully as she picks up the burger with precision and bites into it, her eyes rolling back, and a moan escaping from between her lips. Mulder’s cock twitches and judging from the look on Dr. Paddy’s face, something’s happening in his nether regions too.

“You were right,” Scully says. “This is so good. Mulder, you need to try it.”

He grumbles, but picks up his own burger. As does Patrick. The other man’s is bigger, Mulder realizes. He bites into his burger and for a second forgets to hate on the guy, because it really is that good.

“Wow,” he says in between bites.

“Told you so,” Patrick says, chuckling. “I found this place about a year ago, but I don’t bring just anyone here. It’s a special place.” He looks at Scully, his expression softening. Mulder can relate. His own eyes go to Scully’s face and he almost chokes on a piece of his burger because she is looking right back at him. He averts his eyes and pretends to focus on chewing his food.

“Thank you for trusting us, Patrick,” Scully says and the guy beams at her.

For Scully’s sake Mulder tries to join into their conversation. There’s laughter and ease and then, Patrick does the unthinkable while telling them a story about his childhood dog named Skippy: he puts his hand on Scully’s. Even worse, she doesn’t pull hers away.

Now Mulder knows he’s lost.

He should have known. After Ed Jerse, after everything. He should have known that one day someone would step into their lives and whisk her away. In many ways he’s glad it’s Patrick. Having been sitting here for over two hours, after having seem them together at work, he knows he’s a good guy. As much as he hates to admit it. He and Scully will probably adopt a dog or two, move to the suburbs and she will become Dr. Dana Donghue, just someone Mulder once knew.

“Mulder, are you okay?” She asks him quietly when the waitress brings over the bill.

“I’m fine,” he says, borrowing her own line. She knows exactly what it means. She observes him, obviously trying to figure out what he’s not saying. “I’m okay,” he says, nodding at her with a sad smile.

“My treat.” Patrick voice cuts into their silent argument and their heads snap up to look at him. “It’s the least I can do,” he adds with a shy smile.

Mulder opens his mouth to protest, but Patrick puts a hand on his arm. “Please,” he says. “Let me.” If only this guy wasn’t so damn nice. But Mulder decides to let it go. After all, he might have to share his partner with this man from now on.

“Dana,” Patrick says, turning to Scully, who’s about to put on her coat. “Can I talk to you for a moment? If you don’t mind giving us a moment, Mulder.” The other man’s eyes plead with him. Mulder checks with Scully, hopes that she’ll give him a sign that he should intervene. She doesn’t. Scully is a woman who can handle herself. And Patrick is a good guy. He’s a doctor, for fuck’s sake. Bill Jr. will be so happy to get Patrick as his brother-in-law. Mulder realizes he’s still staring at them both.

“I’ll be outside,” he says, looking at Scully. Before he leaves, he nods at Patrick.

He watches the scene from outside the diner, the cold biting into his skin, just as the exchange behind the window bites into his soul. Scully’s and Patrick’s heads are close together. The other man runs a hand through his hair again. Must be a move that works. A smile appears on Scully’s face and it breaks Mulder’s heart. This is it.

Any second now, she’ll join Mulder out here, with Patrick in tow. Maybe they will let him know that they’ve decided to go see a movie, just the two of them. And all this time he could have said something. He could have told Scully how he feels so many times. Each time he chickened out. He convinced himself he didn’t want to risk their friendship. He can’t lose her as his partner. Except now he might lose her anyway. To Dr. Paddy. They walk towards the exit, side by side and Mulder puts on what he hopes is a neutral face.

“Ready to go home?” He asks Scully once they step outside. She stands close to him, her arm brushing his.

“I am,” she says. “Thank you for dinner, Patrick.”

“No, thank you for the wonderful day.” Oh, Dr. Paddy’s got it bad. Mulder can’t blame him, shares the other man’s feelings, but right now he wishes he’d just disappear.

“I hope we run into each other again,” Scully says, extending her hand. Patrick looks at it for a moment, before he takes it. He gives her another winning smile while Mulder watches on. Maybe Scully is trying to spare his feelings out here in the crisp autumn air.

“I hope so, too. Bye, Patrick.”

“Bye, Dana. Mulder.” He nods at Mulder and he returns it, albeit feeling confused. He waits until Patrick is out of their sight before he turns to Scully.

“Let’s go,” she says. “It’s cold.”

“Let’s go?” Mulder parrots. “What was that?”

“What was what? Mulder, I’m cold.”

“You and Dr. Paddy. ‘I hope we run into each other again’.”

“Well, he was nice.”

“Yes, exactly.” There’s something he’s missing here. Scully stares at him, hugging her middle. “I thought – he asked you out, didn’t he?”

“He did,” Scully says.

“Then what… why did you say that?”

“He asked me out, but that doesn’t mean I said yes. Can we please leave? I forgot my gloves.” Without thinking, Mulder takes her small hands into his bigger ones and blows on them. Her fingers are ice-cold. He rubs her hands between his, his eyes returning to her face.

“Why didn’t you say yes? He’s a great guy.”

“Do you want to go on a date with him?” Scully asks him. “You do seem rather interested in him.”

“No, I- I thought you were.”

“What gave you that idea?” Genuine surprise crosses her face.

“All day you- I saw you flirting. I thought you and him… I thought there was something there.”

“There was,” she says and Mulder’s grasp on her hands tightens. “On his part. I’m not interested in him.”

“But he’s good-looking, funny, and a doctor. Your family would love him.”

“They might, but I don’t. Mulder, what is this about?”

He hasn’t missed his chance. It’s standing right here in front of him and all he has to do is to take it. He could be wrong about this. Wouldn’t be the first time today. But he takes a deep breath and hopes that this time he’s right.

“I didn’t want him to ask you out,” he admits.

“Why not? You just said he’s a great guy.”

“He is. That’s why I- you know, I never know how to say this. Or how to ask you. There’s always work and last time I tried taking you on a date there was a serial killer.”

“Last time you tried taking me on a date?” She asks, her eyes widening.

“Forget it,” he says, not wanting to remind her of Donnie Pfaster. “What I’m saying is that I’m not good at this.” Scully huffs and gives him a smile. Her eyes remain on his, waiting for him to say it. Maybe she does want it. Maybe it doesn’t matter how perfect Dr. Paddy is.

“Would you- I don’t know how Patrick did it and I’m probably not as original, or as funny, but would you go on a date with me, Scully? One day?”

“Yes,” she says with the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen.

They’re going on a date.

Soon.

[kittymaine]

Two Weeks Notice Ch. 4

Summary: Jason attends a Christmas party.

It took weeks to recover from what was thankfully only a concussion and a lot of stitches.

After things had settled down, Jason's doctor at the field hospital had explained his injuries to him in detail. They had been worried about brain damage, since Jason had only barely been able to hold onto consciousness during the flight from the ship to the field hospital, but luckily it had just been a very severe concussion. There was a lot of medical jargon that Jason honestly didn't particularly understand thrown around, but it was his understanding that he had dodged a bullet. The skin on the back of his head had been split open and needed a lot of stitches. The same was true of his back and chest. His back must have bashed onto some kind of sharp metal that bruised his ribs and left a deep gash right across the middle. The front of his torso had been peppered with shrapnel from the explosion.

It made for a lot of time recuperating in Bizarro's floating fortress. The concussion meant that he couldn't handle a lot of noise or light, and the stitches all over his torso meant that he could barely move without risking pulling a stitch. It meant a boring and long recovery of lying on the couch and then lying in bed and then lying on the floor and trying not to be too much of a bad patient.

Dick had filled in the rest of what the Doctor skipped over. Apparently, their wild suicide mission had been a rousing success. The grenade he threw at the mothership engine damaged it badly enough that all their shields dropped at once, but not so badly that it fell out of the sky and into the ocean off the coast of New Jersey. This allowed the Justice League to quickly infiltrate the mothership and take control of it.

Which is when they found Jason unconscious in the engine room, being cared for by a panicked Damian. Dick told him that Wonder Woman had carried him into the emergency triage, a visibly upset Robin fast on her heels. It was incredibly embarrassing to imagine Wonder Woman, probably the most impressive woman on the planet and a literal goddess, carrying his bleeding unconscious ass back to their temporary camp. But, it was Damian he was having trouble getting over. He knew Damian wasn't really the apathetic cold-blooded killer he presented to most people, but it still was a big deal for him to be upset enough to show it in public.

So, all in all, Jason was discharged from the triage tent and advised to follow up with his general practitioner. Which was all well and good for a normal civilian, but Jason didn’t even exist legally let alone have a regular doctor, so he just went home to sleep it off as best as he could.

Bizarro was a peach, because of course he was. He would fetch Jason his phone or the remote and could make him endless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without getting frustrated. But, it was Artemis who always did the bulk of the care taking whenever he was injured. It always surprised him, even though it happened every time he got hurt. There was always a lot of muttering about how 'in Bana Migdahl, the healers would never dishonor a warrior by sending her home before she was fit for duty', but she still patiently moved him from bed to couch each day and helped him to the bathroom when crawling was his only hope of getting there by himself. She would head down to Gotham and pick them all up take out multiple times a day if needed. Not to mention all the constant changing and checking of bandages. She treated wound maintenance the same as weapon maintenance, and never let Jason slack on medications or changing bandages or washing.

While he was recovering, he was in constant contact with the other bats, which he found more than a little surprising. It took him a while to notice it, since he couldn’t stand looking at his phone screen for the first week or so, but Barbara must have given his cell number out to everyone. He was getting phone calls from Dick, text messages from Steph and Cass and even Damian. Even Kate texted him once to make sure he was okay, since no one had seen him since before the invasion. It was sweet of her, considering that Jason had thought she was more likely to arrest him than worry about him. Bizarro obligingly would read the text messages out loud in his halting, rumbling voice and then carefully tap out simple responses for Jason.

Recovery was slow-going, even with all the bats texting him and Artemis and Bizarro there to keep him company. Jason listened to an obscene amount of audiobooks and podcasts and not a lot else for almost two months before he finally got cleared for duty right around Christmas.

Gotham was cold and wet the first night he went out, because of course it was. It had snowed weeks ago and piles of filthy snow were piled in every corner, frozen solid and disgustingly dirty. Strings of colorful lights blinked from around apartment windows and strung around shop doorways. The roofs were icy and dangerous, glittering with thin layers of almost invisible ice.

Jason was paired up with Steph the first night, but it was cold as shit and Jason was out of shape after weeks of lying around and trying not to shake his brains up too much or pop any stitches. They only patrolled for an hour before giving up and picking up some coffee to sip from on top of Monarch Theater while they looked down at the streets below.

“So, you’re coming to the party, right?” Steph burst out when Jason was halfway through his coffee.

He turned to look at her with raised eyebrows that she unfortunately wouldn’t see under his domino mask. “Have you been stewing on that one all night?” he asked.

Steph fidgeted a little with her gloves, but didn’t answer.

The party she was talking about was a Christmas party Babs and Dick had organized at the Clock Tower. Bizarro had painstakingly read out Babs’ very kind and heartfelt invitation weeks ago when Jason had still been struggling to look at his phone screen for more than a few seconds at a time, but he had never gotten around to answering her one way or another. The longer it took him to answer, the less he knew what he should say.

Based on what he saw people talking about in the group chat, it was going to be a pretty big party. All the Gotham vigilantes (except for the Bat himself) were going, including a fair few out-of-towners. Damian was staying with the Kents for the time being, so Jon and Lois were going to come along to escort him to the party. Leslie had agreed to come, along with the sibling pair Harper and Cullen Row, who apparently had briefly been involved in the vigilante life. Someone had dug Jean-Paul out from whatever rock he had been living under and extracted a promise from him to attend. It sure sounded like it was going to be quite the shindig. But, that just made Jason even more unsure if it was the right thing to attend.

“Babs invited me,” Jason eventually said. It was true, and it didn’t commit him to one answer or another.

“I know,” Steph replied. “She told us she would, and she asked us not to bug you about it, so we didn’t!” she said, getting louder and talking faster as she talked “But, I know that everyone wants you to be there, so, you know. I just really hope you come,” she finished, muttering into her waxed paper coffee cup.

Jason felt incredibly uncomfortable, but it was hard to put his finger on why exactly. People wanted him at this Christmas party, and that felt like something he should be happy about, regardless of whether he intended to go or not. So, why did he feel like shit instead?

“You guys don’t want me at your party,” Jason said hesitantly, grinning at Steph and elbowing her a little in the side, enough to get a dirty look from her. “I’m the dangerous loose canon, remember? I’m sure half the people there would sooner eat shit than wish me Merry Christmas.”

“Fuck them, then,” Steph said viciously, surprising Jason. “If they don’t want you there, then we don’t want them there. That’s it,” she spit.

“Come on, Steph,” Jason sighed. “I’m not worth all that. If people don’t like me, I’m sure they have more than enough good reason.”

“I’m serious,” she said defiantly.

Jason didn’t know what to say to that. He turned back around to look out at the quiet street below. A group of twenty-somethings clustered outside the theater’s back door, likely a bunch of actors just out of rehearsal. Their breaths rose in clouds of white around their heads, sounds of laughter and rapid talking echoing off the alley walls and back up to him.

“It’s been over a year since Tim left, you know,” Steph said quietly.

“I know,” Jason replied.

“We all felt like shit on the anniversary, you know?” she continued. “I mean, not only were you hidden away with your real friends recuperating where none of us could chec on you, but Damian was out of Gotham staying with the Kents in Metropolis. And then the anniversary comes around and like?” she stopped to sniff a little. “Like, he’s really not coming back, huh?” she tried to make her voice sound chipper, but it was thick with unshed tears.

“Steph,” Jason sighed.

“No, it's okay. I mean, I know it’s not all about me,” she laughed wetly. “Like, trust me, I get that. But, he was my best friend for years, you know? And I had a lot of feelings for him. Some were good and some were bad, but they were all big emotions. I know sometimes that was too much for him. And that’s fair. I know I’m kind of a lot for a lot of people. But, I just,” she stumbled and went to rub her nose on her nose on her sleeve before remembering she was wearing tough reinforced gloves and instead switched to wiping with the end of her cape. “I just miss him, you know? I wish I could talk to him about all this stuff that’s happened. I just miss my friend.”

“I’m sorry, Steph,” Jason said somberly. Hesitantly, he put his hand on Steph’s shoulder, and she sniffed again before giving him a wet smile.

“You know, I used to think you were a Grade A asshole?” she said with a smile.

“Oh jeez, did you?” Jason joked back with a toothy smile. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he teased.

“Shut up, ass,” she snorted, elbowing him a lot harder than he had elbowed her. “I’m trying to say I was wrong!”

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” Jason said with a doubtful wrinkle of his brow. 

“You know, a lot of people treat Damian like he can handle anything. He sure acts like he can handle anything. But, Babs pulled the audio from Damian’s comm and I know that you tried to look out for him on Halloween,” Steph said with a pointed look.

“Any of you would have done that,” Jason dismissed.

“Yeah, we would have. We understand Damian better than most. Maybe you just fit in with us better than you think you do,” Steph said with an arched brow.

“Watching out for a literal child doesn’t disqualify you from being an asshole,” Jason muttered, taking a sip of his coffee and grimacing when it was cold.

“And, I heard you made up with everyone’s favorite big brother, too,” Steph added smugly.

“He’s not that bad,” Jason sighed.

“And, you’ve been like Oracle’s errand boy, checking up on us and doing odd jobs whenever she asks for it,” Steph sang.

“She’s spread thin! She needs the help!” Jason protested.

“I’m just saying!” Steph exclaimed, meeting Jason’s loudness. “That you’re nothing like the person that everyone told me you were. When I was Spoiler, I can’t tell you how many people told me the story about the Robin that died,” she said with a twist to her mouth like she had just tasted something sour. “It sounded so cliché that I really didn’t even believe you actually existed until you came back to life. I mean, it just felt too convenient for B to have this story handy whenever I stepped out of line. And then you came back and came after Tim and broke the Joker out of Arkham!”

Jason froze, his stomach twisting into knots at the direction the conversation had suddenly taken. He knew he had no right to react badly to a recounting of his own actions. He had really done those things after all, all explanations aside, he had really hurt Tim and really broken the Joker out of a secure mental facility. Still, having it all said so casually made his dinner threaten to come back up.

“But, you know, I died too,” Steph said quietly. “I did a bunch of stuff I wasn’t proud of and got into a lot of trouble, and things didn’t turn out okay for me. I died on the operating table. It was pure luck that the doc was able to bring me back. And, you know,” here Steph stopped and turned serious eyes on Jason. “I was mad as hell for a long time. And, I wasn’t just mad at Black Mask. I was mad at B. Mad as hell.”

Jason felt frozen. He couldn’t breathe or speak.

“Black Mask was only doing exactly what he always did. He was a sadistic, evil asshole. He destroys everyone who gets in his way, and I was no exception. I could hate Sionis for what he did to me, but I didn’t feel betrayed by him. It was B who betrayed me,” she said fiercely.

“He was the one who put me in the Robin suit. He was the one who threw me out on the streets and then did nothing to protect me! And then when I died, he turned me into a cautionary tale, just like you. I was the bad Robin, the Robin that didn’t listen, I was what happened to ill prepared heroes who thought they were untouchable,” Steph spat. “Except, I came back after only a few months, and he still didn’t stop telling my story to anyone who would listen. So, I hated him with everything in me.” She sighed and turned back to the quiet street. The people had gone back inside the theater and the only sound was the sound of cars driving down wet streets.

“And, I don’t know why I didn’t think about you. I don’t know why I didn’t realize that I wasn’t unique. You had gone through the exact same shit as me. It wasn’t until this year and all the shit that��s happened that I really thought about it, and it’s like? Wow, it’s so obvious now! I really just believed all those stories, even when I knew he had told the exact same stories about me!”

Steph paused and looked at Jason again, her eyes a little less serious. Jason just looked at her, totally frozen. She had really just rearranged his heart on a frigid roof in the Bowery without lifting a finger

“Anyway, I’m trying to say that if you’re invited, it’s because we want you there. You showed up for us this past year, and that means something to all of us. So, come to our stupid party. We want you there.”

“Well, shit,” Jason sighed, something old untying itself in his chest as he breathed out. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that?”

Steph laughed and tapped the edge of her coffee cup against Jason’s with a triumphant grin.

“Easy,” she said. “You don’t!”

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

Jason went to the party.

Something in his gut still rebelled at the idea, but his talk with Steph stuck with him. Those people were his people. They had stood by him the past year, when it would have been a lot easier for them to just ignore him. The least he could do was show up at their silly holiday get together with a crock pot full of turkey chili as a peace offering.

He got there a little bit early because he brought food and felt it was only fair to help set up his own crock pot and any other bits that needed to be set up. He needn't have bothered, though. As soon as he got there, it was apparent that Barbara and Dick had everything well in hand. And Alfred, who Jason saw and then immediately tried his best not to make eye contact with. It had never occurred to him that Alfred himself would attend, but he had no idea why he had thought that. Alfred might have been Bruce’s adoptive father for all intents and purposes, but he didn’t always stick with Bruce. Hell, he didn’t even agree with him most of the time. And Alfred had always loved kids, and had loved Dick and Jason in all of Jason’s memories of him. Jason couldn’t see that changing with the kids that came after him. Of course, Alfred would have to help them set up their extended family holiday party.

Jason stepped into the clock tower’s top room. It had been cleared out, all of Babs’ monitors and humming towers shoved against the walls for the time being. Jason accidentally made eye contact with Alfred for the barest of seconds before immediately turning to Steph and starting to chatter manically. He could tell from the raised eyebrow that he was talking way too loud and way too fast, but she was good enough to go along with it.

Luckily for Jason, if Alfred noticed his obvious avoidance tactic, he at least honored it and stayed near the fold out table where he was fussing with various warmer plates and trays of cookies.

He didn’t have to make small talk for long before everyone else started to show it. And once they started to show up, Jason was kind of stunned by just how many people there were.

All the core group of Gotham vigilantes were there. Barbara, Dick, Steph and Cass were all there before anyone else had gotten there (along with Alfred). The wider group of vigilantes in the city also showed up: Luke Fox, Kate Kane, Jean-Paul Valley, Jason Blood, Harper and Cullen Row, Helena Bertinelli, and even Selina Kyle. Beyond that, people from the Justice League even made appearances. Black Canary and J’onn J’onnz (although it was hard to be sure since he looked like a very bland businessman, but Jason assumed that was him) came in together and seemed to know everyone by name.

By the time that the party was really in motion and everyone was talking and mingling, and low classy music was playing over Bluetooth speakers, Jason was feeling more than a little out of place. It didn’t help that he couldn’t remember the last time he was in the same room with that many people, but if he had to make a guess, it was probably before he died. He wasn’t sure how to stand or where to put his hands that it wouldn’t look awkward, and he wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but judging by the weird looks people gave him when they chanced eye contact, it was probably not exactly inviting.

It must have been pretty clear that he was not doing great, because he seemed to have at least one bat stuck to him all night. In any other situation, that would have been frustrating, but Jason couldn’t help but feel grateful for the assist.

Steph stuck with him initially. She was easy to talk to and seemed to pick up on his queues quickly and easily. It was like they spoke the same language, and she seemed to understand what he needed without him having to say a thing.

Once people really started to show up, she tapped out for Babs, who seemed to enjoy pulling him over into a corner so that he could stand over her while they both avoided greeting the people just arriving.

“I feel like I’m being used,” Jason muttered into the red solo cup she had passed him before she had dragged him off. He had counted five people by that point that had seen Babs, started to walk toward her and then noticed Jason standing just behind her and instead turned off toward the snack table.

“You’ve got to pay me back for all the free intel sometime,” she said with a smug grin tossed over a shoulder.

Jason snorted into his cup to hide his pleased expression.

After most of the guests had arrived and had been greeted and loaded up with paper plates full of food and snacks, Dick tagged a reluctant Babs out. She made a disgusted face as she rolled off to make small talk, but Jason took notice that her smile looked genuine when she pulled up between Dinah and Selina’s chairs to chat.

“Doing okay?” Dick asked, nudging Jason’s shoulder with his own as they leaned against the exposed brick wall.

“Yeah, fine,” Jason answered back. His red solo cup had long ago been emptied, but Alfred was still hovering near the snack table, so Jason would make do with just the one cup of mulled wine. He tapped his plastic cup against the brick rhythmically.

“I’m really glad you came tonight,” Dick said, tipping forward to try and catch Jason’s eye. When Jason did glance over at him, the warmth and affection in Dick’s face were definitely too much to handle when he was already feeling a little overwhelmed. He had to look away quickly.

“Yeah, well,” Jason coughed. He felt his neck flush red at the hoarse quality of his voice. “I think Steph would have cut me down at the knees if I didn’t.”

Dick let out a bark of a laugh, his smile so big his sharp white canines flashed in the colorful lights strung along the ceiling beams. “Ha, yeah! That sounds like her. I’m glad we can count on her to push you around when all else fails.”

Just then, Wally West, Garfield Logan and Victor Stone stepped through the door, followed by two people Jason definitely hadn’t expected to see.

“JASON!” Kori shouted, startling half the room when she flew up and over everyone’s heads to reach him where he was standing in the corner and swoop him into a big hug. Jason’s flush climbed from his neck all the way up to his ears at all the eyes turned toward him.

“Shit, Kori, what-?” Jason stuttered out.

“WE DIDN’T KNOW YOU WOULD BE HERE!” Kori shouted right into his ear, her understanding of acceptable volume levels no different from when he had known her.

Everybody was looking at them, from what little that Jason could see of the rest of the room beyond Kori’s hair. He sort of wanted to burrow into her and disappear. She would have loved that, but Jason’s pride wouldn’t let him.

“Wally!” Dick shouted happily, being similarly squeezed by his own red head just to Jason’s right.

“RICHARD!” Kori shouted before abandoning Jason to attach herself to the side of Wally and Dick’s hug. All three of them broke out in delighted laughter, while Jason was left floundering under the stares of what felt like every single person in the cape community.

“Roy!” Roy Harper yelled sarcastically as he ambled up to Jason at a much slower pace. Jason immediately relaxed and opened his arms to pull Roy into a much less smothering hug.

“Shit, man! Am I glad to see you,” Jason sighed.

Roy laughed and patted his back before stepping back. “Same to you!” he exclaimed. “I knew this was a bat party, but I didn’t know you would be here. To be honest, I didn’t think you guys were on good enough terms,” Roy said the last part in a lower volume.

“It’s, uh,” Jason floundered for an easy explanation, but didn’t find any, “It’s sort of a new development,” he said with a half-hearted shrug.

“Are we happy about this development?” Roy asked, moving in to put his arm around Jason’s shoulder so that he could ask this quietly in his ear.

“Reserving judgement for now, but I’m hopeful,” Jason said after a pause to think.

Roy nodded like he understood completely, and he probably did. Roy was supportive and nonjudgmental about whatever relationship Jason had or didn’t have with Bruce, and Jason was the same way about Roy’s whole thing with Oliver. It was both extremely weird and extremely gratifying to know someone who was in such a fucked up and yet incredibly similar situation to his own.

The party seemed to fly by after that. Jason was folded into the mini-party within a party of all the current and ex-teen titans, which gave him mixed feelings. On one hand, all of these people were in his age group, and he had briefly belonged to the Teen Titans before his death. So, in that way, he knew it made sense for Roy and Kori to pull him along to the big table commandeered by current and former titans. But, on the other hand, despite knowing or having met most of them, none of them had tried to contact him since his miraculous return from the dead and the attempts at small talk they made during the party were stilted at best. Jason on his part sat sandwiched between Kori and Roy, stealing food off their plates, while he let most of the conversation roll over him like water.

It felt like he had barely been at the table for half an hour when the door opened again and this time a windswept Clark Kent was stepping into the clock tower’s top floor, already stopping to apologize for being late to a mild looking Alfred while Lois, Jon and Damian dodged around him to enter the room.

Jason knew it was probably rude, but he couldn’t help but follow Damian with his eyes. Everyone had assured him that he was fine, but this was the first time Jason had seen him since the invasion on Halloween. As far as he could tell, he looked okay. He was moving normally, his face still stuck in a perpetual frown, though Jason figured that maybe the semi-permanent grooves between his eyebrows looked a little softer and the tension in his shoulders just a little less tight.

He didn’t get a chance to look at Damian for more than a few seconds before Damian’s eyes, which had been scanning the crowd, landed on him and firmed into a determined glare. Jon had been chattering excitedly to him about something, pointing at someone on the other side of the room, but Damian ignored him and started walking towards Jason like he was the only person in the room.

“Damian!” Dick shouted when he got close, jumping to his feet in excitement. Jason had a moment to wonder if it had been as long since Dick had seen Damian too, but only a moment before Damian had dodged around Dick without any acknowledgement to stand at perfect attention beside Jason’s chair.

“Todd,” Damian said stiffly.

“Hey, Damian,” Jason said a little awkwardly. He gave Dick an apologetic shrug over Damian’s shoulder, but he just smiled and sat down to rejoin a heated conversation between Vincent and Garfield.

Damian’s mouth twisted and Jason thought he was probably chewing on his tongue as he frowned down at him. Jason tried to look as patient and open as he could.

“About Halloween,” Damian started, sounding stiff and uncomfortable. His eyes glanced nervously at Kori and Roy. Roy was trying to pretend not to listen, but Kori’s glittery green eyes were raptly watching Damian. She had no concept that her attention might bother him at all, but judging by the way that his eyes danced around her without quite making eye contact, Jason felt confident that it was.

Damian hesitated, his mouth opening and then closing, his brow crumbling for a second before firming up again as he forced out, “I was hoping to tell you-. That is-”

“I have to hit the john,” Jason said, definitely way too loudly, judging by the way everyone’s eyes jumped to him as he stood to his full height. Damian’s mouth clicked shut, and he took a step back. “Come with me?” Jason added awkwardly, feeling like a fool, but also not caring all that much. It was better that everyone’s eyes be on him than Damian. He was an adult, so he could handle the attention for a few seconds.

Damian looked confused, but his chin dipped in a quick nod. Jason led the way out of the big room and down into the living area of the Clock Tower, just below the top floor. He could hear the sounds of someone using the bathroom already, but that wasn’t really his goal anyway. He made a detour into the living room and took a seat on the arm of the sofa. It was halfway through the party, so he wasn’t expecting anyone else to come through the door. At least here, Damian would have some privacy to say whatever he wanted to say.

“Okay, you can go,” Jason said with a sigh, enjoying being away from the party for a bit.

Damian didn’t stand at attention or hide his hands behind his back or make eye contact once they were in the living room. It should have been a sign that he felt more comfortable without the eyes of the rest of the hero community on him, but somehow Jason felt that wasn’t the case. When Damian wasn’t operating under pressure or extreme expectations, he looked a lot more like a lonely teenage boy than the snarling prince he presented to everyone else.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Damian directed to the tips of his snow boots, still wet with the slush lining the sidewalks outside.

“What?” Jason frowned. “You don’t owe me an apology, Damian,” Jason worked to gentle his voice from the snarl it wanted to come out as, but didn’t manage to smooth all his aggression out of it.

“I was the one that wanted to ignore orders and press all the way to the alien landing ship. I was the one who activated the teleportation pad. I was the one who wanted to push deeper into the mothership. And, I was the one who wanted to destroy the engine. Therefore, it is because of me that you incurred Father’s wrath,” Damian said. He enunciated every word so perfectly that Jason knew in his bones that these were things that Damian had repeated to himself over and over in the weeks since they had last seen each other.

“Damian,” Jason sighed. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands over his face hard. He kept careful control over his breathing, trying to master the swirling mess of emotions tangling up in his head and chest. Jason hated that Damian was blaming himself for this. He hated that Damian even knew about it. He wondered who had told him. It was beyond inappropriate to talk about that kind of stuff in front of, regardless of how mature Damian tried to present himself. He was still just a kid, and Bruce was still his dad. Damian didn’t need to know all the dirty details of what was going on between Jason and Bruce.

But those were all considerations for later. Jason didn’t have time to sort through all that mess just then. Damian was in front of him, and Jason needed to clear the air before he worried about anything else.

Jason considered touching Damian to communicate his sincerity, but he remembered how complicated his own relationship was to touch at Damian’s age and decided against it. Instead, he leaned down to try and catch Damian’s eye and lowered his voice. 

“Damian. Really listen to me, okay? Okay?” Jason repeated when Damian didn’t respond. Damian nodded just barely and Jason continued. “Nothing that Bruce does is your fault.” At this, Damian’s brow furrowed, and his mouth immediately popped open to reply. Jason was glad that at least he was making eye contact. “No, listen,” Jason cut him off before he could say anything. “Bruce is an adult and your guardian. That means it is his responsibility to control himself and his emotions. Not yours. And anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is wrong,” Jason emphasized, holding Damian’s eyes even when his expression crumpled from one of indignation to hurt.

“On top of that, you didn’t do anything wrong that day,” Jason added and earned himself Damian’s eyes again, his eyebrows rising in surprise. Jason started to tick things off on his fingers. “You were right that we were running out of ammo. Without it, neither of us would have been able to keep the aliens pinned on the beach. Activating the teleportation pad was an accident, you can’t be held responsible for that. If I had taken your place on the wall, it could have just as easily been me. You were right that we had the element of surprise and could disable their shields from the inside. And, unless my memory is going, I was the one with the bright idea to chuck a hand grenade at a mysterious alien engine.”

Jason used the hand he had been counting things off on to gesture at Damian. “All your decisions made perfect sense that day. Do I wish that someone other than you had made those connections and taken those risks? Of course. All those heroes were there and nobody thought to consider how the landing ships were funneling aliens onto shore without making a million trips! But, you did, and you stopped them. You’re a hero, Damian,” Jason said sincerely.

Damian’s eyes filmed over for a second, his face doing something complicated that sent a little shot of fear into Jason. He didn’t have the faintest idea what he would do if he actually made Damian cry. Probably run for the hills when the whole bat family came to put his head on a pike.

“I just want you to know that I’m not upset at you at all,” Jason hurried to add, his mouth moving before his brain had any input. “In fact, I couldn’t feel more differently from all those things you said. You really impressed me, Damian.”

Damian sniffed hard and rubbed the sleeve of his thick gray sweater over his eyes a few times, and Jason very carefully made his face blank and didn’t move, even though he was screaming a little in his head. It was hard to imagine that Damian had been that tore up over him, Jason Todd, the certified fuck-up of the family, getting shook around a bit by their mutual father figure. But, then, he had always suspected that Damian was softer than he or anyone else made him out to be, and he had dealt with a lot of shake ups in his life recently. He hoped that was all it was.

When Damian’s arm came down, he was back to looking haughty and disaffected, even if his eyes and nose were touched with pink.

“Of course, that’s to be expected,” Damian said, coughing a little when the words came out rough. “You have likely never worked with a true professional such as myself.”

“I’ve got to say, it was very refreshing,” Jason agreed with a wolfish grin that Damian returned with an uncertain upturning to the corners of his mouth.

“I am grateful that this matter has been resolved. Now, I must return to the party,” Damian said awkwardly, tucking his hands behind his back.

“Of course. I know everyone is anxious to see you,” Jason agreed, climbing to his feet and quickly popping his back.

“Hm,” Damian hummed his agreement and then practically teleported back up the stairs, leaving Jason to stand a little bewildered in the living room.

“So,” he said quietly to himself. “That happened.”

Jason returned to the party. He took notice of Jon and Damian disappearing up into the rafters together just as he stepped into the room, but everyone including Clark seemed to ignore it, so he did too. He was glad that Damian had Jon and that they were so close. Jason got the impression that Damian had never had a friend before Jon, so it was good that he could talk to him about all the crazy things in his life.

Jason returned to his seat between Roy and Kori and tried his best to ignore the stares of people watching him for any clue as to what he had just talked to Damian about. It was absolutely none of their business.

It was surprising to him how quickly the party chewed through his energy. It wasn’t like he had been looking forward to it or that he thought he would enjoy the party. But, he had to admit, it was a lot more pleasant than he had been expecting. Still, when he saw a few people making their way to the door, he was quick to take the opening to slip out himself. He bid a warm farewell to Roy and Kori, promising to talk more soon, and only a slightly less warm goodbye to the other titans. He made a point to say goodbye to Babs, Steph, Cass and even waved at Damian where he was still perched in the rafters and was surprised to receive a small wave back.

Jason gathered his crock pot and was giving it a quick rinse in the kitchen downstairs when he ran into the one person he was hoping he would make it through the night without having to make small talk to.

“Master Jason,” a mild British accent said from behind him just as he was wiping out his crock pot with a paper towel. Jason froze and couldn’t for the life of him imagine what he should do. He did feel guilty about avoiding him all night, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be confronted by Alfred any more than he had before.

Jason had nothing but good memories of Alfred Pennyworth. As much as the League of Assassins and the pit had twisted him up, Alfred was one thing they never touched. The League likely never bothered because they didn’t consider him important enough to spin. The pit didn’t seep into those memories because there were just no negative feelings associated with them. Alfred was a force of uncomplicated goodness in Jason’s early life. Even at his most angry, Jason had a hard time working up even a vague dislike of Alfred.

But, he didn’t have a hard time feeling hurt over him.

Alfred always stuck up for him with Bruce when he was a kid. He was always kind and warm to Jason, in his own uniquely British way. When Jason had been in the midst of being the absolute worst version of himself, he had to make sure he didn’t think about Alfred at all. The littlest thing that reminded him of the kind old man would send him into spirals of self-doubt and self-hatred that could stall him out for days.

But for all the high esteem that Jason held for him, Alfred had never tried to make contact with him. Not when he first came back, not when he was in prison, not even after he went straight and started living in Gotham full time. Surely it would have been no problem for Alfred to find Jason if he had wanted to. And Bruce wouldn’t have been able to stop him even if he wanted to. Alfred has never bent to what Bruce wanted, no matter how much of a fit he threw.

So, why had Alfred never come to see him? He’d never even given him a phone call, and Jason would never believe that Alfred couldn’t get a phone number if he needed it.

He had assumed it meant that Alfred didn’t forgive him for the terrible things he had done when he first came back to Gotham. Not that he blamed him. He probably wouldn’t have forgiven himself either if he was in the old man’s place.

Still. It didn’t make Jason want to share a room with him.

Jason opened his mouth to reply, but his voice was a croak, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

“Hey, Alf,” he said, trying to sound casual but still sounding strangled.

Jason remained staring forward blankly as the older man stepped carefully up behind him and reached into the sink from beside Jason. A clatter of dirty spoons banged into the stainless steel sink, and Jason controlled a flinch at the loud sound.

“I can’t tell you how happy it made me to see you tonight,” Alfred said, his voice sounding thick in a way that Jason had never heard before. Alfred was unshakable, Jason thought he must have been mistaken about what he had just heard. He turned on the hot water and started to clean the spoon with dish soap, his pressed white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

Jason turned to look down at Alfred, and Alfred turned to meet his eyes with perfect timing. His hazel eyes had more lines around them than Jason remembered when he was a boy. His hair was looking thinner and his hands more wrinkled. But, most of all, his eyes were filmed with real tears as he looked at Jason.

“You grew into a fine young man, quite in spite of everyone around you,” Alfred continued, his voice growing even thicker.

“Alf,” Jason choked out, any good he had done clearing his throat gone. His voice revealed to anyone listening just how close to tears he was.

Alfred put one soft worn hand on Jason’s neck and whispered “Oh, dear boy” and Jason collapsed into his arms like he was thirteen all over again.

The hug was so similar to what he remembered from his time in the manor. Alfred’s clothes smelled exactly like the particular blend of the laundry detergent he used on everyone’s clothes and his own old school aftershave and a faint whiff of cologne. His arms were still strong, if thin, where they wrapped around Jason’s shoulders. He still leaned his head against Jason’s while he cried. The only big difference was that Jason had to lean down to hug him instead of Alfred leaning down for him.

“Alfred, why-” Jason tried to ask, once it felt like the tears were drying up. But, he stumbled and couldn’t get the words out. He wanted to know why Alfred had never contacted him, never reached out, but it felt too dangerous. They had exchanged maybe twenty words. Couldn’t Jason savor the reunion a little before destroying everything?

Jason swallowed his words, but Alfred heard what he didn’t say anyway. Alfred was always excellent at hearing the words that went unsaid.

“I was a terrible old fool,” Alfred said fiercely. “I listened to the wrong people and trusted people I knew weren’t always trustworthy. But, those are excuses, and you don’t deserve excuses, my boy. You deserve an apology, and that’s the least I owe you. I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Jason sobbed out a gut punched, “Shit,” and then let himself collapse back onto Alfred’s shoulder again.

The tears were stronger the second time around, the kind of crying that felt like it was tearing your chest up from the inside out. He held Alfred tight, but tried to remember not to hold him too tight. He felt so much smaller than Jason remembered, and he couldn’t get over the difference it made.

At some point, Jason heard footsteps coming into the kitchen, but he couldn’t be fucked to pull himself together. Luckily, it was just Dick.

“Is he-?” Dick started to ask, his footsteps quickening as he approached Jason and Alfred.

“He’s alright,” Alfred said, his own voice tinged with tears. “Here we are, my boy. We’re quite alright, aren’t we?” Alfred asked, patting Jason on the back until he finally straightened up and tried to wipe his face off on his sleeve. Alfred offered him a handkerchief, and he gladly used that instead.

Dick stepped up on Jason’s other side and put a cautious hand on his shoulder.

“Master Dick, could you handle the rest of the cleanup? I have something to show master Jason out in the car,” Alfred asked.

“Sure thing, Alf,” Dick agreed easily. “You okay, big guy?” Dick asked, not letting go of Jason.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason said, giving his nose one last trumpeting blow and then pocketing the handkerchief, so he could wash it and return it later. And, fuck, did Alfred do that on purpose? Selina could only aspire to be as subtle.

Dick clapped Jason on the shoulder and then moved off to the sink and started the process of washing all the serving spoons.

“Accompany me?” Alfred asked, holding out his elbow in a solicitous move that Jason was pretty sure only an English gentleman could unironically pull off.

“Lead the way,” Jason agreed nasally, still congested from all the crying. He put his hand in Alfred’s proffered elbow with a quirk of a smile at the whimsy of it.

Alfred tipped his head regally and then lead Jason out into the Clock tower living room and out the front door. They walked at a leisurely pace, Alfred’s hand resting on top of Jason’s where he held onto Alfred’s warm wool sweater. They walked down the stairs side by side and down into the cold, wet evening. Somehow it was both cold and humid, which was a nasty combination that Gotham always excelled at.

They walked together through the nearly empty streets for a little over a block until they reached a small parking lot squeezed in between two tall brick buildings. A classy black BMW sedan sat toward the back of the lot, and Alfred led them over to it.

“You are the only one that has seen Timothy since he left, though only from a distance, is that right?” Alfred asked as he used his key fob to unlock the car with a quiet clunk of gears.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Jason said uncertainly. He hadn’t really thought about what Alfred might have in the car for him, but he hadn’t thought it would have anything to do with Tim.

“I have a bit of a confession to make,” Alfred said, pausing as he pulled the passenger door open. He turned to regard Jason with a mischievous tilt to his mouth. “You’ll have to keep it to yourself, as I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“Oh?” Jason asked, still feeling decidedly off center.

“Master Timothy and I have been sharing phone calls recently. Very pleasant ones. He seems to be doing very well, which I am exceedingly happy to hear. But, I worry that he is lonely out in the country by himself.”

Alfred, turned back to the car and pulled out a white bakers box secured with a shiny green and red ribbon. “I seem to recall that both you and Timothy were very fond of my almond cookies. I wonder if you could share these with him?”

Jason’s mouth dropped open, and it was only when Alfred curved an amused eyebrow at him that he snapped it shut.

“Are you serious? You want me to deliver him cookies?” he asked uncertainly. 

“I want you to share them,” Alfred corrected him.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, Alf, but I don’t think it’s a leap to say that I’m probably Tim’s least favorite person,” Jason said with a wry tilt of his mouth.

“I think there are an almost endless number of people who could say that and make a very good argument for it. Most of them were at the party we just left,” Alfred said in his most dry tone of voice. “I think the two of you have more in common than may be obvious at first glance.”

“You aren’t worried about what I’ll do to him all alone out in the wilderness?” Jason asked, taking the box just to avoid the awkwardness of watching Alfred hold it out for so long.

“I think you’ve proven many times over that you are not the monster that people try to make you out to be,” Alfred said in a quiet and sad voice.

Which just made the tears rush back to Jason’s eyes, so he cleared his voice and tucked the box under his arm.

“Okay, okay. Point made. Call me your delivery boy, then,” Jason said roughly.

“Excellent, my boy,” Alfred said and pressed a hand to Jason’s cheek in an unbearably fond gesture. Alfred swallowed roughly. “Do take care of yourself. And, give me a call whenever you feel the need. My personal number is in the box.”

With that, Alfred walked around the car and got into the driver’s seat and drove off into the wet Gotham night.

Jason looked down at the box in his hands in consternation.

He sighed.

“Guess I’m going to Pennsylvania. Fuck.”

[rosenallies]

Wouldn’t it be such a GAG if Jane got some medical degree bc she was rich and bored in uni? She knew her major didn’t matter bc her future was already set in stone so might as well study something for funsies. Maybe explains why she’s extra good at her job and knew how to care for Nymphia during her pregnancy.

Lmaooo going to medical school bc ur bored 😭😭 honestly seems like something she’d do. It prob just never came up in conversation all those years with nymphia that when Jane starts spitting medical jargon when Nymphia’s sick and pregnant that Nymphia’s like where tf did you learn that?? And Jane just shrugs like technically I’m a doctor