#did saleese vote in favor? idk it's ambiguous on purpose

[purgetrooperfox]

“I think I messed up this time.” and saleese and nocte

[ prompt list ]

prompt: “I think I messed up this time.”

characters: Saleese Jeekkunass (@milf-plokoon) & Clone Medic Nocte

tags: emotional hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, politics

ao3

Blinking up at the ceiling of her living room, it occurs to Saleese that she may be drunk. 

That was, of course, the goal of drinking a bottle of wine by herself, but it surprises her, in a way. Alcohol scrambles her thoughts and pulls them away from the day she's had. She doesn't want to think about it. That was the entire point. 

The surprise is that she's capable of thinking about anything else. When she arrived home, she wasn't sure it was possible. It just goes to show that anything can be accomplished with enough wine. 

The carpet under her back is soft and the lamps around the room cast a warm glow over her. The low chattering of newscasters drones from her sound system. If she tilts her head, she'd be able to watch the story unfold on-screen. 

She opts not to. 

The ceiling might need to be repainted. Maybe she should stop letting her guests smoke indoors. There's a perfectly good balcony overlooking the Financial District just down the hall, after all. 

Blinking up at the very slightly discolored ceiling, it occurs to her that the rhythmic banging at the edge of her attention may be someone at her door. 

Her brain feels foggy. She wouldn't put it past herself to order dinner to be delivered, since she's clearly in no state to be driving. With a monumental effort, she peels herself off the floor and shuffles to the front door of her condo. As the banging gets louder with her approach, her confidence and irritation rise in unison. 

"Okay, alright!" she raises her voice to be heard as she fumbles with the lock. 

Frustration peaks when the door slides open, then dies in her chest when she sees who was knocking so insistently. Nocte's standing with his hands shoved in his pockets and sheepish guilt etched into his face. He actually changed into street clothes this time. An oversized hoodie works wonders for hiding the blasters he surely has strapped to himself underneath it. It's strange to see him in it, rather than his usual combination of armor and medical scrubs.

He almost looks younger, despite the grey threaded through his hair. 

"Shaefa said you left early," he says carefully, interrupting her thoughts. Straight to the point, as usual. It's not an accusation but it is a question. 

The days Saleese cuts short are few and far between. 

"Only by an hour or so." She shifts and waves him inside. "We had that vote this afternoon."

Bile stings the back of her throat, but she swallows and walks back to the kitchen with her head high. 

"I heard." Of course he heard. It would be foolish to think he hadn't. 

No empty consolation follows. 

By some miracle, Saleese manages to extricate another wine bottle from the cabinet without breaking it. After popping the cork, she sidles back to the living room and sits on the floor with her back to the couch. The room seems hazy in front of her unfocused eyes. 

She finds that wine tastes like shame and drinks it anyway. 

The cushions at her back dip when Nocte sits down, tucking his knees up against her shoulders. He doesn't talk, doesn't push, and Saleese wants to scream that it's more consideration than she deserves. She wants to rage and tear and sob until her body gives out on her. Instead, she pulls a long drink straight from the bottle then passes it back to Nocte. 

When it's half empty, he sits forward and starts carefully pulling pins and ties from the tangled mess of her hair. Once, she was surprised by his dexterity, a comment she voiced and was bluntly reminded of his training background. Now, she thinks about a childhood spent between military drills and a medical curriculum. She wonders how hard it is to commit one's existence to healing and destruction, simultaneously. It's a thought she will not be voicing. 

His fingers thread carefully through her hair until it's free of all fasteners, then gently detangle the knots that came from hours on end at work followed by sprawling on the carpet. She doesn't realize that she'd nodded off until he puts the empty wine bottle on the coffee table, a faint clatter of glass on wood. 

"Sorry," he murmurs, unfairly quick to notice her waking. 

"What could you possibly have to apologize for?" she asks before she can stop herself. 

"Waking you up when you clearly aren't feeling well?"

Part of her resents him for his empathy. Misguided irritation rears its head again. 

"Well, don't," she snaps - or tries to snap; it comes out too tired to have any bite. 

Nocte sighs softly behind her, barely audible. "Are you okay, Saleese?"

"I'm fine."

His silence could be skepticism, or it could be him deciding not to argue when she's certainly not fine.

"I'm fine," she repeats. 

"Okay."

"I am."

"Okay," his voice goes hard. He rarely raises his voice around her, she noticed it ages ago, but tone goes a long way. This tone is on the verge of a warning to drop it if she won't tell the truth. "I'm here if you want to talk about it, but I won't force you to."

If she's honest with herself, she doesn't know how she would even begin to talk about it, even if she wanted to. Tears burn her eyes against her will. 

Only when she's absolutely certain that her voice will be steady does she admit, "I think I messed up this time."

There's no way around it. She fucked up. She fucked up and the final vote count came through and now a new production order is going to Kamino. Another generation of clones will be bred and raised to die for the safety of a Republic that doesn't care about them. They can rationalize it as part of the greater good all day long, but… 

But Saleese has heard the way Nocte and Fox talk about their youngest siblings – the shinies fresh out of training. She's held both of them when they snap. When kids die because of their orders, or because they couldn't save them, or because they couldn't be in two places at once. She's heard them both spiral out about being treated like canon fodder. 

A quarter million new shinies will be born. How many of them will survive?

"Hey," Nocte says and slides off the couch behind her, pulling her back into his chest. "It'll be okay. Maybe not for a while, but eventually. You're doing everything you can."

Everything she can. 

She wants to jerk away from him, but she can't even do that. She doesn't want to turn around and cry into his shoulder, but she can't seem to help it. She doesn't want him to wrap his arms around her in that way that feels like safety, but he does it anyway and she doesn't stop him. 

"You wouldn't," she chokes out, "if you–"

"Saleese," he stops her, "I don't care. It doesn't matter. We're here now, right? The only way out is through, so we'll go through and we'll beat this thing and then we can talk about ifs or buts all day long. But we have to get through, first."

It sounds hollow, but she's too tired to fight him on it. She wants it to be true. She wants to believe it. She wants Nocte to believe it. 

Neither of them do, but it's enough. Until they get through. 

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