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nach0 · 1 year

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broken feathers and bloody wings

Summary:

Humanoid anomalies grow wings after a certain stage of development in their powers.

Iris has always hated hers.

AO3 Link

Word Count: 1244

Iris knew she was screwed the minute she heard a long and disappointed sigh.

Which was ridiculous. She was an MTF commander, trained in hundreds of forms of combat, the sole survivor of Omega-7.

She could have just kept walking. Once she was in her cell there was nothing Jacqueline could do to follow her. But she knew it would just make future missions awkward and tense.

“Is there something you needed?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. Maybe if she just bluffed...

“You are aware it’s very obvious when you’re binding, right sir?”

She was, in fact, aware, but she blamed the foundation entirely for that. They denied her proper binds so she had to resort to other things. Like tying her wings together with rope and hiding them under her jacket.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Denial was great. It was her favourite thing. It got her through psych evals and awkward conversations about her feelings.

It wasn’t working.

Jacqueline sighed at her. Again. Iris was already over this ‘disappointed friend’ act. “Right, jacket off. Did you at least make the knot easy to untie?”

“You could just leave it alone and stop bothering me.”

“So no then. Let me do my job and be your medic.”

She reluctantly shrugged off her jacket, pulling out the knife she definitely wasn’t supposed to have to cut the ropes off herself. Most skips would hate having a weapon so close to their wings. Iris was long past caring.

Once she was done Jacqueline pulled the rest of the rope away and let bright red wings stretch and fill the hallway. “How many of us have told you to stop doing this now?”

Iris looked straight ahead at the wall. “They’re a hindrance on missions and reveal me immediately as an anomaly. That’s all.”

“Sure. That’s why you keep them bound and hidden for as long as you can get away with even after we’re back on site.”

She was starting to get annoyed and kept her wings tightly to herself. No use training herself out of expressing with them if one slip-up ruined everything.

“It’s none of your business.” She said with professional detachment. She was the commander, and Jacqueline was one of her soldiers. Nothing more than that. “My wings and my reasons for hating them are my business.”

“...Hating?” Her voice was filled with concern, so genuine it made Iris want to punch something. Or cry. Probably both. “Sir, that’s-”

“I said hiding. You misheard.”

That moment made for the perfect time to leave, so she turned and stormed away without another word. Her cell was silent, but it was safe from judgement and invasive questions.

At least until word of the incident got back to her foundation-mandated therapist.

Horary.

SCP-105 Iris Thompson was 15 years old. She hadn’t left her bed in weeks, but that was fine.

There were no missions anymore.

Her photos had been confiscated, but that was fine too. They only showed dead bodies now.

It hadn’t been long after the... disbandment of the team that her wings had started to grow in. The researchers had been ecstatic, saying she’d reached an important stage in the development both her life and powers.

They’d been less excited to explain what cardinal wings represented.

Grief and loss.

How fitting.

She couldn’t believe they expected her to be excited about it.

To her, they were just the final nail in the coffin proving she wasn’t normal.

Because otherwise she could pretend. She could look normal, act normal, and aside from outdated references, she spoke normally. Take her photos away and she was just as average as anyone else.

Wings weren’t average. And now there was no chance of her ever being let go. Even if she lost her powers, actually lost them with multiple tests to prove it, she was a risk to the veil.

And yet they still tried to offer her incentives based on them. Flight training if she engaged with the researchers. Time in a safe airspace if she ate full meals consistently.

It was shocking how they hadn’t realised that it made her far less likely to comply.

The door to her cell opened. She didn’t bother to move from her blanket lump.

“105, you need to get up. Learning to use your wings has now been made mandatory.”

She mentally weighed the pros and cons of being abrasive before deciding she was too tired to care.

“Fuck off.”

There was a long pause. Almost enough to make her regret her decision.

“You will be escorted by force if necessary.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she sat up. Stretched out her wings. Ran a hand along the feathers.

Iris made eye contact with the researcher as she grabbed hold of one of her primaries and yanked. Then she did another. And another.

By the time they snapped out of their shock and called the guards, her wing was mangled beyond use. There was no way she could fly on the bloody mess, even if her other side was untouched.

She lost a lot of privileges for that stunt, but they’d got the message.

She would never use her wings.

Jacqueline had snitched.

Iris was now required to have her wings out at all times while not on missions, which included the cafeteria. She’d avoided it for a while before being told how worried Leora and Stacy were about her, and couldn’t she just come out for a little while to reassure them?

Dammit. She had gone soft.

The pair had swarmed on her immediately, asking questions about where she’d been and if she was hurt.

Usually they were satisfied with grunts and non-committal answers, however seemingly sprouting wings out of nowhere was much more interesting than her classified missions.

“Will we get them?”

“If you’re lucky, no.”

“Do they hurt you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Can you fly on them?”

“Never learned.”

“Can I touch them?”

Stacy’s question threw her and she paused, blinking slightly.

Wings were meant to be personal. They were fragile and much more painful than regular limbs when injured.

But... letting her do it would be an even bigger flip off to the researchers constantly trying to get her to accept them. Besides, she’d been shot before. What damage could one teenager do?

“Alright.”

Leora and Stacy both looked shocked at her response, though they quickly scrambled over to her side of the bench when she spread her wings wide.

There were a number of marks, crooked feathers that had never healed quite right, but they were gasping like it was the coolest thing they’d ever seen.

Stacy carefully reached out and ran a hand along it, frowning slightly at the dirt and dust she’d never bothered to clean out. She gently started trying to brush it out, only to freeze as Iris-

Well, Iris chirped.

She had never once made a bird noise. Not even in distress. But the minute someone is gentle with them-

“We are never talking about this again,” she hissed, standing and almost tripping over the table in her rush to leave. Everyone moved out of the way of a pissed Commander Thompson and she was back at her cell in record time.

A loud groan escaped her.

Everyone who talked about ‘self-care’ and ‘not neglecting an entire part of your body’ was going to be insufferable.

Though she had to admit she wouldn’t mind someone doing it again.

#scp 105 #scp iris thompson #scp iris #scp #scp foundation #scp 1985 #scp 3009-C #scp 3009 #scp 4818 #bit of angst bit of fluff #iris makes bird noises #entirely just wingfic that's the whole reason i wrote it #writing #my writing #nach0 writing #feathers and lonely cells

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storm-of-feathers · 2 years

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#yes i stole this from another post but im gonna vent for a sec #bc its REALLY cool that someone at my insurance decided im not actually sick #its really cool that the INSURANCE got to advise the DOCTORS ab whether or not i need further testing #someone over at independence has decided that because i have no prior history of physical brain dysfunction #(bc my cocktail of mental illness dont count i guess)#(nor does my ACTUAL history of head trauma??)#and therefore if i get further testing i pay out of pocket and that shits fucking expensive #and our rent just went up and i just. ugh.#i guess its not a huge deal ive been told theres no risk of it being terminal #and only a 'moderate' risk of it being serious #but like. id still love to know why my head literally always hurts. why i never dont have a headache #like when i say i have a headache what i mean is it hurts worse than the baseline hurt #but its not supposed to hurt AT ALL #and i was told its probably connected to my migraines and insomnia #but like.#the other problem is now i have to like #go through psych evals again to get back on the proper medication.#but the waiting list is. long. and as long as im still on antidepressants im not at risk of suicide probably #i mean tbf im. i ran out of antidepressants ab a week ago and just havent refilled it #i dont know... why. i can feel myself getting worse but i just. havent made one single phone call #idk whats wrong with me its like i want to be sick.#ugh its all just. too much.#its cool how some greg over at insurance can practice medicine without a license with a greater authority than a doctor.

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hournites · 3 years

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Will It Wash Me Clean?

Hournite fic: Rick gets a visitor in jail - 2x08

(Part 1/?)

Read on ao3

~.~

One minute, Rick was asleep.

One minute Rick was asleep in the dingy holding cell, the next Beth stood over him, arm outstretched and figure glowing green in the night, activated goggles perched at the top of her head like a translucent halo.

There wasn’t time for Rick to formulate his questions about how or why or where she’d come from. Sweet, intoxicating relief pierced through him like a needle, ran like an aching supplement for adrenaline he’s missing, craving, through his veins. His heart started pumping and his chest expanded and out expelled a breath that got lost in the leather suit of Dr. Mid-Nite’s shoulder-padded arm. Her hands stayed still at her sides as her head turned, calculatingly, already onto their next move as he slumped against her.

Rick didn’t understand. He didn’t need to understand. He’d go with Beth. Rick would go anywhere with her.

“Beth!” her name gasped out his lips. Her sheer presence was enough for Rick to tremble, to break for her solace. For this long-imagined and forbidden embrace. Beth slid her goggles firmly over her eyes just as Rick pushed himself up and got a proper look at her. It had been...It had been days.

There weren’t any attorneys Rick could afford. Not even with Pat and Barbara’s savings. Not with his reputation and disdain in this town. No legal counsel, no salvageable way to untangle Rick from the terrified grief-stricken rambling he shouted at the dispatcher through the phone. The tearful plea at the first aid responders blew into a full-fledged panicked insistence to take him away and to deal him in. That he didn’t mean to kill anyone except for all the ways that he did.

“Rick. Yeah. It’s okay. It’s me. Come. Quickly. Now, while the jail’s still empty. The coast is clear.”

The holding cell creaked wide open behind her, keys jammed stuck in the lock.

“What?” His head whipped back behind him at the solid wall. The one he’d stared at for nearly a week in peril as exhaustion seeped into his bones.

She laughed and gave him a light push. He stumbled along, following her out of the shadowed bars and through a maze of sterile halls, squinting through his blurry vision. “Beth. What are you doing?” He looked back at her as the fresh cold air hit his lungs.

She grabbed his arms, yanking him closer. “I’m breaking you out, silly.”

Their chests collided together. Rather, her head met his shoulders and Rick was so deliriously happy he wanted to kiss her. Rick wanted to more than kiss her. He blinked slowly, dazed through his wet, clumped eyelashes to gaze down at her. The green goggles snapped downcast over his cuffed wrists. Beth reached into a back pocket, olive cape flaring behind in the wind behind the police cruisers. “One second.”

A new set of keys emerged and she freed him. And then there were his hands, free to stretch out and expand. Arms free to spread as he half-spun around in his spot by the lamplight shining on them. Free to tilt his head back and thread his fingers through his dirty hair and drag his palms over his face, holding off a choked sob first, then hiding a smile that grew and grew until he was urgently gripping onto Beth, choking over clumsy laughter for real.

Beth watched Rick break down with mild interest.

“Let me. Let me—” Rick fumbled over his words, over his thoughts. Over everything. What was he even trying to say? Rick couldn’t process the next minute. The next moment. Beth pulled him aside and they walked through forgotten back alleys on a mission to weave through the town without a trace. Without a word.

“Wait!” He hardly caught his breath but his mind cleared enough to know what the buzzing was ebbing through his muscles, warming his face underneath his set jaw. He just wanted to hold her. Look at her. Thank her. “Let me…”

The pads of his thumbs reached below the thick band of Beth’s goggles. She went still, letting him lift the folded material, unclouding her gleaming eyes. Face no longer obscured, Rick gazed on adoringly. He stepped forward and blinked back more tears. It was a lot and too much and not enough all at once when he bumped his forehead down to hers and just absorbed the night between them.

“Beth,” His voice broke altogether. “God. You didn’t have to do this.” The realization set in. “You didn’t have to.” Rick loves her though. He reached for her suede brown gloves for one of her hands. He slipped his hand into hers, felt the curve of her palm through the suit, and attempted to pull the tips off slightly. The gloves weren’t enough. Rick needed something skin to skin.

Her fingers twitched. Then pulled away.

“This is illegal, Rick.”

“I know. I know, and I can’t believe you did something like that for me. I’m not— this could get you in trouble. I’m not worth a risk like that. You didn’t have to get me out of there but...there you were.” Rick’s breath hitched. “Like my angel.” He’d been thinking that since she appeared to him like a glorious fever dream. She was driving him mad. “Beth… please. Let me kiss you.”

“No, Rick,” her soft voice whispered. “Listen to me. I freed you because it was the right thing to do.” She cupped his cheek as he searched her eyes. “But what is there left for you here? You have nowhere to go. You’re too dangerous, Rick. Even before the hourglass. This is a dead-end. Nobody’s come to defend your case. This town can’t handle you.”

Rick squeezed his eyes shut, shutting down. Beth touched him tenderly, soft fabric grazing across his sunken cheeks then carded through his hair that gave him the care he yearned for. He couldn’t tear himself away.

“But what about you?” he asked desperately. It didn't make sense. "What about you, Beth?"

“Me?” Beth took a step back into the shade by an old crooked fence. The goggles sat on the bridge of her nose, green overcast shining harshly on him. “That’s why I’m here. So you can go.”

Rick shuddered through another breath, shielding his eyes.

“You let Grundy free. I’m doing the same for you. We can agree on that, can’t we, Rick? Granting mercy to Monsters like you that don’t deserve it?”

Rick crumpled. Ground hit his knees, freed hands grasping at cruel, empty air after Beth vanished. Wind lifted a young giggle that was never hers.

~,~

“We’ve got a sixteen-year-old detainee currently at the Blue Valley holding center needing medical attention and a psych eval. Yes, ma’am. Looking like PTSD. Over.”

~.~

“Hey! Kid!” The officer shook Rick hard. “Kid! Shit.”

Rick jolted out of the vision. Two uniformed policemen flanked with guards crowded into Rick’s cramped tiny room.

“Stand down,” the officer called out to his partner over his shoulder. “Yeah, he’s stable. He was in a terror trance or something.” He studied Rick. “Need some water?”

Rick couldn’t even manage any words. He nodded, panting, then knocked his head hard against the cement wall of his detention cell. Not again. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists over his buried face, knuckles pressed against the intrusive hallucinations spinning more tricks as tears streamed down from his eyes. Of course, again.

And it would continue to happen over again. As much as Eclipso pleased.

They could lock him in a straight jacket and throw him in a pit, still, Rick couldn’t claw Eclipso out of his damn mind. His shirt clung to clammy, pale skin. There was no relief in the flat jail heat. Horizontal bars were still too sturdy for him to bend. There was no out. No hourglass. No jailbreak. No rescue mission to get Rick out while the JSA mapped out their next plans. No Beth with her arm reached out forward, to both save and break him.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. He got a water bottle still cold, wet on his palm with condensation.

The officer with Carl on his name tag squatted down low. “Does this happen often?”

Rick glanced away. Since he landed there? Often enough.

“We’re gonna get you help, kid.”

Why were they pretending to be nice to him in jail? Rick squeezed the crinkling plastic bottle as he thirsted, letting it deform in his grip instead of taking a drink. More lights flashed on and one of the officers got him a starchy blanket he didn’t even want. He looked down at the pins and needles in his shackled foot. They’d kept him in one leg cuff. Because he was dangerous.

That part really wasn’t fake.

The vision wasn’t real. What Eclipso dug out of him again. But it was dug out from something real. It was buried there. The stuff he said to Illusion Beth, wanting to run with her. More than that. The way that rush had made him feel. A part of him almost wanted to hide back in Eclipso’s game. Did he even have to fight back? He was too easy for the devil to manipulate, terrorized and broken down, powerless. What left was there to take from him anyway?

Rick was beyond help.

#hournite fic #hn fic #stargirl #hournite #rick tyler #rick x beth #angst #2x08 #stargirl spoilers #s2 #jail angst #will it wash me clean?

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pendragonfics · 4 years

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Let It Snow

Paring: James “Bucky” Barnes/Reader

Tags: gender unspecified reader, no pronouns used for reader, Jewish holidays, Jewish identity, canon Jewish character, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Wanda Maximoff, Jewish Pietro Maximoff, Jewish Bruce Banner, Jewish Peter Parker, Jewish May Parker, Jewish Scott Lang, Jewish Cassie Lang, everyone is Jewish, Hanukkah, Holidays, Fluff, Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff

Summary: He hasn't celebrated Channuka in over fifty years, but then you come along...

Word Count: 1,368

Current Date: 2019-12-22

For: @damienazario

A/N: Before we get to the fic, I need to tell you all something. I am not Jewish. I'm goy. I researched a whole lot for this fic, and I just want to tell you all that if I messed up, it's on me, and I'll do my best to rectify it. Roast me in the comments if I butchered anything xx

No matter what year it is, be it the 20th or 21st century, Bucky agrees with anyone who listens that winters in New York City are the best time of year. Sure, there’s the ice on the sidewalk, longer lines for themed coffees at Starbucks and loads of Christmas bullshit. Last Chanukah, he grumbled openly about all those things, but if truth be told, Bucky missed the feeling.

The feeling of a proper Chanukah. Like the ones he remembered back when he was keeping a roof over his sisters’ heads, and celebrating with Stevie, back when he was thinner than a dollar bill. Then there was the last time he celebrated with Steve, before the war...that December, he hadn’t known it would be the last time he lit the menorah, but with everything else that happened, with HYDRA, the bullshit he went through, and then the endless psych evals in the aftermath from it all, it had been years since he had even thought of going back to his heritage.

No, last winter was certainly the last time he ever felt the need for being sour in the face of everyone’s merriment. Mainly because that was just after the time he had been finally sanctioned by the Avengers’ medical consultants as fit for duty. But mostly, because, he met you.

Bucky remembered first seeing you, clear as day. Bucky was out with Steve for groceries for the Avengers’ end-of-year mixer, and you were in front of the hummus in the deli section. You were a mix of beauty and rage; gorgeous features pulled into a fury as you fought a mugger over your purse. He was going to intervene, but he watched you, a civilian, took on the would-be-thief with a left hook.

It turned out you were Steve’s friend from the Smithsonian - “I didn’t curate it, but I’m studying the field, with a speciality in world war two” - and as soon as he met you, Bucky would admit that he was head over toes into you.

But that was last Chanukah when he chatted you up over apple cider in the Tower. Six months later, you asked him out (much to Bucky’s own surprise - but mostly because he’d been itching to ask you first), and now...it was the damned holiday season once more.

But that was okay.

Instead of making a big deal about your own background, Bucky watched as you placed your own traditions on the backburner for him.

"I'm not really into the whole mainstream Christmas stuff," you said to him one November night over a beer. "I was raised anti-capitalist, if anything, so don't expect some big present from me."

"Actually," Bucky heard himself say, "I'm Jewish. Well, born, raised...I haven't celebrated in a while, but..."

"How long is a while?"

"Fifty years?" he replied. "Give or take."

"Oh! Well, don't say a word, I'm organising it all. You're gonna meet my friends, they're Chanukah nuts. They celebrate with an open-door policy; wait, do you know Scott? We go way back, actually to college -," Bucky he zoned out at that point, either from the beers or the shock. But Bucky would say that it was a good shock (if there was one).

It was what led him to tonight.

It turned out that Bucky did know Scott. It was skinny Scott, the guy who he met in Germany who turned into a tiny or huge version of himself. Ant-Man. He didn't want to sound old, but it seemed like the heroes these days were getting crazier as time went by. But with you, he went to Scott Lang's new house for dinner. Before eating, Bucky helped his kid, Cassie fold napkins, and by the time that it was to eat, a few other heroes turned up.

Wanda and Pietro, the twins from the team came, along with their latkes, Bruce Banner and his girlfriend Betty Ross, as well as the kid Peter Parker, and his aunt who made enough food to make the table groan. He sat on the couch after the meal, watching as Wanda recounted stories, and Cassie and Peter played with a homemade dreidl. He hadn't realised you weren't in the living room until he heard the sound coming from the kitchen, the sound of singing.

Leaving Pietro to talk off Betty's ear, he approached the sound as delicately as he could, but the floorboards gave him away. As soon as he was in the doorway, he saw you look up at him, bright pink and yellow washing up gloves contrasting with your top.

"Sorry I interrupted -," he began.

"God, was I being too loud? Did anyone else hear me?" you asked him, self-consciously.

He shook his head, the hair coming into his eyes a little. He sorely needed a haircut, and huffing, Bucky tried to blow it out of the way. But even with the gloves on, he watched as you stroked the hairs back into place, looking just that little bit sad.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

You busied yourself with the remainder of the dishes, and Bucky watched as your shoulders tensed up, telling him something that he'd never heard about you before.

"I remember before my Mom died, having times like this in our house. It was neat, and we'd all play dreidl like the kids are out there. But then she...she uh, passed. Cancer. I was like, eight? My dad got really grouchy after that, and we never did anything we did with her at home again."

Bucky hesitates, placing his metal hand upon your shoulder. "My Mom died pretty early too. My Dad, too. That's why back then, I fought tooth and nail to make my sisters have a good Chanukah."

"Same hat," you chuckled.

"Same hat," he replied. "That song...is that?"

"Mom used to sing it. I'm guessing yours did too?"

Bucky nodded, and let his hand move from your shoulder, to rest on your waist. He moved behind you, and rested his head upon your shoulder, holding you close like you were just a pair of slow dancers in a dance hall in the 40s, swaying to a song that wasn't playing in anyone's ears but your own. For a second, it felt right. But that was until Bucky and you were interrupted by Scott waltzing in - quite literally - with Peter's Aunt May. After that, you surrendered the washing up gloves, and Bucky said his goodbyes to the other heroes - Bruce as leaving early too; Betty had a few PhD papers to grade before the end of the year - and took an Uber to Bucky's apartment.

It wasn't big, but it was his. Since your lease had ended two weeks ago, you had decided to live with Bucky, to which he was immensely grateful. But it wasn't for the cooking or cleaning, or the history books of yours that were often left around that he read, the fact that he read. He liked you. Loved, even. If he was asked, he'd say that, after the events of the night's emotional vulnerability - but not that anyone would ask him of that just yet. It was still just six months into dating you, and he didn't want to scare you away with his intense feelings. But living together, Bucky hoped you felt the same as he did.

But now, very full of brisket, he crashed upon the couch with you, barely able to pull a blanket from on top of the seat onto your shared laps. It wasn't late in the evening, nor early, but looking to you, wordlessly, the pair of you communicated plans to watch the rest of the season of Nailed It on Netflix and eat a pint of ice cream together.

"Oh, you read my mind!" you groaned, sinking into the couch a second time, already a spoonful in on the chocolate ice cream. "God, I love you."

For a second, he wasn't sure what to make of it. I love you. But as soon as that feeling came, it passed, and he grabbed a spoon from your hand, kissed your cheek, and pressed play on the remote. "I love you too, doll."

"Happy Chanukah, you dork."

#Bucky Barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes/reader #bucky x reader #winter soldier x reader #Avengers #avengers x reader #marvel fanfic #marvel x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #gender neutral reader

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drinkupthesunrise · 7 years

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Ok, so I know you're all about the WedgeLuke, but would you consider writing WedgeBodhi? For a prompt I would say, something like - Wedge gets put in charge of helping the newest defector transition into the Rebellion. He didn't expect to actually *like* the guy... Maybe?

I am a consummate multishipper, even if I do focus my writing mostly in one place :D So happy to oblige. This is definitely Wedge/Bodhi, but it is also some other things as well, because I got slightly carried away. (3.5k, also on ao3)

Thereare, in retrospect, a half dozen reasons why Wedge is the perfect manto help Bodhi Rook settle into the Alliance to Restore the Republic.

(He’san Imperial Defector himself; he spent six months out on injuryrelearning to walk; he knows exactly what it’s like to walk from abattle that left almost everyone else dead; to name a few.)

Thatdoesn’tmean that Wedge likesany of them.

He’salready spotted one eager, idiotic, headstrong pilot who needslooking after – Skywalker is youngand in desperate need of guidance – but Wedge is told that, no,Skywalker already has people in his corner. (To be the Last Princessof Alderaan, ready to martyr oneself for the Alliance, counts for farmore than a fool of a pilot who peeled off the Death Star run momentsbefore completion, apparently.) Instead, Wedge is asked to beresponsible for the hero of Scarif, thepilot, the only reason that any of them are still standing here atall.

Theorders come from Chancellor Mon Mothma herself, conveyed by HeraSyndulla, just before the evacuation of Yavin Base. It’sthe last words Hera says to Wedge. The Ghost does not appear at therendezvous point. Wedge is cast adrift, bitter and alone again –they’ve sent Luke off with that damned Corellian idiot and thePrincess, and Verlaine is now heading the Alderaanian contingent, andHobbie… Hobbie is in medical somewhere,where Wedge isn’tquite sure, but his status remains steady at aliveso Wedge doesn’tquestion it too much.

Sohe does about the only thing left to himself, and gets his ass downto the medbay. The med droids almost don’tlet him in, but Wedge’s orders came with a broad spectrumauthorisation that gets him past once he remembers to use it.

“Getthe fuck out,” are the words which Wedge is greeted with. He canonly see a back, and an arm – still bandaged heavily, which meansthe limited Bacta supplies didn’t help and it’ll scar. One legswings under the bed. The other one, Wedge knows from his briefglance at the medical report, was lost to the explosion that rockedRogueOne.

“I’dlove to,” Wedge shoots back. “But Chancellor’s orders. You’restuck with me until you can get an audience with her and convince heryou don’tneed babysitting, and good kriffing luck with that.”

Bodhi’shead turns, just enough to get a glance at Wedge. Half his head isshaved – medical intervention, Wedge guesses, or at least partof it is unintentional, because…well, it’s not a great look, and Rook doesn’t look used to it.His eyes are wide, almost too big for his face, and they’rehaunted, from stress and lack of sleep and who knows what besides. Inthat second, Bodhi looks almost ready to fight, to physically pushWedge out the medbay if he has to. But something stops him. “You’re…”Rook’s voice is low, worn thin, though Wedge thinks it might havebeen nice once. “You’re a pilot.”

Wedgenods. The bright orange of his comefind mesuit made that fairly clear. “Iwas on the Death Star run,” he says, hoping it will prove to Bodhithat he understands just a modicum of the hell that Bodhi’s beenthrough. That he has the potential to.

Bodhiconsiders this for a long moment. “Chancellor’sorders?”

“’Fraidso.” Wedge lets his mouth quirk into a smile.

“Well,come in. Two-one-bee will have a fitif you keep standing at the door, and I’mnever going to get released if I keep pissing them off.”

“Whatdo you actually doall day?”

Wedgekicks off, sliding his board out from under the low-level A-Wing he’stampering with, to see Bodhi looking down at him, curiosity all overhis face. Six weeks in, and Wedge would have thought that Bodhi wouldhave worked that out by now: Rook is smart enough.

Onthe other hand, it’sonly in the last week that he’s been fitted with a prosthetic, andonly in the last day or two has he actually been able to wander aboutthe ship, so it wouldn’t be the biggest surprise if he’d missedthe bleeding obvious.

“Work,”Wedge replies.

“Onwhat?” Bodhi asks. He kneels down, trying to work out what on earthWedge is doing. “You aren’t rated as a Starfighter mechanic, Ichecked.”

Hechecked?Wedge wheels himself a little further backwards, then props himselfup, so he can get a proper look at Bodhi instead of the half-upsidedown view he’dpreviously had. One of the medics has got at his hair, cutting itproperly – he’s got an undercut, Wedge notes, that wasintentional, and then the left side is shaved clean – that would bewhere the shrapnel got him in the head – and his remaining hair hasbeen pulled into tight braids across his scalp, gathered into aponytail. His scruff is steadily turning into a full-scale beard. Hismouth is set in a pursed line, his fingers – his hands are sittingacross his knees – are long and elegant.

(Wedgeis loathe to admit it, but Bodhi’sdamnpretty. But it’snot like any of Wedge’s attractions to the various pilots who havecrossed his path have actually come to anything, so he doesn’tdwell on it.)

“Doesn’tmean I can’t tinker a bit,” Wedge shrugs.

“Doesn’tanswer my question,” Bodhi retorts. He’s got a reputation on shipfor being hesitant, shy, nervous; not surprising, given everythinghe’s been through. Around Wedge, he burns with a fire and a witthat is sharp – even though Wedge can see the cracks in his psyche,damage done by unknown horrors before he even reached the Rebellion.

Wedgesighs. “Youreally wanna know?” Bodhi’s not going to like the answer, but henods anyway. “Look after you.”

Bodhi’seyes go even wider than they already are, naturally – somethingthat Wedge wasn’t sure was possible. “What—” Bodhi sputters,rocking back and forth on his heels. “That’s not a job! I don’t—”He glances around, eyes darting franticly, and there’s one of thebreaks that Wedge knows is there, the sort of thing that does meanthat Bodhi needs a full-time caretaker, at the moment at least.“You’re one of the heroes of Yavin, does this damn Alliance nothave a better use for you than me? You should be out there amongstthe stars flying,Wedge, not here on the ground with me, don’tthey realise that, you could be doing so much more.”

Thereare reasons Wedge isn’tout there flying, and the fact that Bodhi isn’t the only onecurrently failing his Psych Evals is one of them. Wedge isn’t readyto tell Bodhi that yet though. He will, eventually – it’ll help,someday, but at the moment there isn’t room for Bodhi to beconcerned about Wedge. Instead, Wedge pushes himself all the way up,and places his hands solidly on Bodhi’s knees, leaning weight onthe way he learnt from the medics, how to ground Bodhi when he’sstarting to panic. “It’s the way it goes. When they need me tofly, I’ll fly. For now, I’ll tinker and advise and pull shifts onthe bridge and do what Chancellor Mon Mothma told me to do, which isto make sure you’re alright.” Bodhi looks surprised at theferocity of Wedge’s instincts – almost like he’s surprised thathe is worth fighting for. “I’m quite content here with you. I’vebeen in enough battles I shouldn’t have survived at this point.”

Bodhitakes a ragged breath, trying to hold it and turn it into somethingdeep. “Okay,”he says. “Okay.” He covers one of Wedge’s hands with his own,and steadies himself in Wedge’s firm gaze.

Wedgetakes a sudden sharp breath. Shit,he thinks. Bodhi’shand is warm on his own, holding firm, and Wedge is almost dizzyunder Rook’s eyes, boring into his own. He does not need to fallfor the man he’s supposed to be looking after. That is a badidea.

Thankfully,Bodhi doesn’tnotice.

WhenBodhi is fully released from the medbay, Wedge is cognisant of hisgrowing crush on Bodhi enough that he knows he should probablyobject to the quartermaster’sinsistence on putting Bodhi in Wedge’s bunkroom. It’s a room forfour, currently only being occupied by Wedge and a recent Imperialdefector who’s awaiting a squadron assignment, once High Commandhave cleared him. There isn’t much of an argument for Wedge toactually make, and there are advantages to having Bodhi close to keepan eye on him.

Thefirst week passes without incident, and Wedge thinks that they’remaking progress on Bodhi’s many issues, and maybe a few of his own.One of them might actually see the inside of a Starfighter within theyear.

Then:

Wedgesits bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. Light continues to flash infront of his eyes as he blinks fast; his ship exploding over Yavin,Biggs’voice ringing in his ears. He digs his finger nails into his thigh,reminding himself that he is aliveand awakeand that he survived,and those are the consequences he has to live with.

Heflicks his gaze across and downwards, desperately hoping that hisnightmare didn’twake Bodhi up. But there’s no one in his bunk. The sheets aredisturbed; someone did sleep there. “Bodhi?” he asks, keeping hisvoice quiet.

“Iwas about to wake you.” The voice that comes back to his in returnis not Bodhi’s. Wedge peers over the edge of his bunk and isgreeted by Tycho Celchu looking up at him. “I heard the door go, Ithink he’s gone.”

“Shit!”Wedge shakes the last of sleep off himself, and vaults down theladder. He pulls on his boots and grabs his flight jacket, checkinghis pocket for his comm. “I’m gonna go find him, if he wandersback, let me know?” Tycho nods and then Wedge is dashing out thedoor.

Hetries to think where Bodhi might have gone. His own tired,nightmare-driven feet take him to the hangar, where a couple of techsconfirm no sightings of him. The mess hall is a dead end, althoughPrincess Leia is sitting in a corner of it, nursing a cup of caf andlooking like the world is coming down around her. Wedge hadn’teven known she was on ship. But he doesn’t have time for her now,so he leaves without even acknowledging her presence. After a littlewhile wandering corridors, Wedge suddenly realises – the medbay.

“Seemsyour charge escaped you,” Doctor Varin comments when Wedge dashesin the door. “He’s in with the Captain.”

Wedgenods. He calms himself – they won’tlet him through the door unless he’s calm. When his breath hassteadied, he walks through into the private, occupied room, and:there is Bodhi. Sitting on a chair by a bed, dark skin and dark hairand dark clothes a complete contrast against the stark white of thebed. Wedge taps his comm quickly, sending an all clear to Tycho.“Bodhi?” Wedge asks, keeping his voice soft.

Bodhikeens, a desperate wail that collapses into full blown sobs. Wedgewalks, steady across the room, to place a hand on Bodhi’sshoulder. Bodhi responds by wrapping his arms around Wedge’s waistand bawling into Wedge’s stomach. Helpless, Wedge strokes a handacross the back of Bodhi’s head and hopes to hell he’s providingsome comfort. There’s nothing he can say. Wedge’s demons areghosts, gone up in a fire of smoke and metal, and Bodhi’s lie infront of him.

Honestly,Wedge isn’tsure he could have done what Bodhi did. The man was blown up, and hemanaged to pull himself together just long enough to rewire thecontrols of the shuttle to get it airborne again. He picked up almosta dozen survivors, and then flew out. How he’d got past thesecurity gate and eluded the Imperial fleet was anyone’s guess –none of the survivors can remember. They’d limped back to Yavinjust after the Death Star had been destroyed. Including Bodhi, onlynine had survived the flight back.

Onlyeight of those are up and walking. Captain Cassian Andor is stilllying in the medbay, unconscious. The medics all agree he’snot brain-dead, but none of them know why he’s not woken up yet.Bodhi blames himself – if only he’d got back faster, then Cassianwould have received medical treatment sooner, and maybe he’d beawake right now.

Wedgewaits until Bodhi has cried himself out. “Comeon,” Wedge whispers, pulling Bodhi out of the chair and into anembrace. “You’re no good to him like this. Let’s get some sleepand we can see if the medics have made any progress tomorrow.”Bodhi nods against Wedge’s shoulder, and allows Wedge to take hishand and quietly escort him back to their quarters.

Tychois snoring away when they get back. Wedge is glad. He has his owndemons, too – he was an Alderaanian in Imperial Service whenAlderaan fell. That’senough to bear.

Wedgemanhandles Bodhi into bed. The man went out in just his sleep things,no shoes, so at least Wedge doesn’thave to undress him, just make sure he gets in his bunk and staysthere. Wedge tosses his flight jacket in the vague direction of hisfootlocker and wrestles his boots off, and then there’s a hand onhis wrist. He turns to see Bodhi looking up at him. “Stay?” Bodhiasks.

“Stay—?”Oh. Wedge swallows hard. Bodhi looks so vulnerable there in the bed,and it’s not like Wedge was looking forward to going back to hisown bunk, cold and lonely. He silently nods. Bodhi moves over, lyingon his side to leave just enough space for Wedge to clamber into abunk that really isn’t big enough for two people. Bodhi’s handsfall around Wedge’s waist. Wedge wraps an arm around Bodhi’sshoulders. In minutes, Bodhi is fast asleep on Wedge’s chest, andWedge… Wedge doesn’t have a kriffing clue what he’s doinganymore.

Theanniversary of Scarif draws closer, months turning into weeks andthen into days. Wedge gets his combat clearance back, and with it atacit acknowledgement that Bodhi is well enough to not need afull-time minder, because no one else is assigned to watch him. Wedgeflies with Luke again, the two of them natural counterpoints to eachother, blending together effortlessly. It makes Wedge wonder what itwould be like to fly with Bodhi, but that is still a way off.

JynErso trudges back to them. Wedge is worried when he spots her in thehangar. She was another who disappeared in the Yavin evacuation, anddespite Bodhi’sbest efforts to learn where she went, either the Alliance didn’tknow or it was classified far above their paygrade. From the rankpips on Erso’s collar, Wedge guesses the latter. Bodhi takes a longlook at her, and then they are hugging, weeping into each other’sembrace. Wedge breathes a little easier in that moment.

CassianAndor still sleeps in the medbay, and Wedge watches Erso’smelancholy grief as she and Bodhi hold a vigil at his bedside. Hefeels like an intruder, but Bodhi asks for him, and Erso smiles athim sadly, so he stands at the edge of the bed and prays that theCaptain wakes up.

Theday itself is ordinary. Wedge flies the CAP first shift, leavingBodhi to sleep in the bunk that they now share nightly. When hereturns, he finds Bodhi deep in the innards of a wrecked B-Wing, headducked alongside a radiant head of gold that can only belong to LukeSkywalker. The presence of the Falcon in the hangar would supportthat. There might have been a time when Wedge would be jealous – ofeither or both of them – but today, Wedge is just glad of thedistraction. And as the day wears on, a steady congregation of pilotsappears, forming a comforting circle around Bodhi and Jyn. Of thenine survivors of the ground battle, a year on, only five are stillalive. (Of the survivors of the air battle, most were killed in theBattle of Yavin. Some of the crew of the mid-level fighters survived,scattered to the winds, not wanting any acknowledgement of their partin it.)

ThePrincess appears, flanked by Solo – she looks worn and thin. It’sbeen a long year, and her own anniversary is coming up. She says somewords, and Luke – hero of Yavin, heir to the legacy of Scarif sayssome more. (Later in the evening, he approaches Wedge, with neworders from Commander Narra; a squadron perhaps, but Wedge brusheshim off. That conversation is for another day, a week and a half fromnow, when their grief has cleared.) Janson – who skirted death atYavin by nature of a flu virus, and Wedge has never been able to tellwhether he’s grateful to be alive or not – brings a tub ofmoonshine, and for once the Princess turns a blind eye as a number ofserving, on-duty pilots get roaringly drunk.

Lukeis telling a story, one about his misadventures on Tatooine, oneinvolving Biggs – and Wedge must be getting better, because hischest no longer aches at the mention of his name. Bodhi is drapedover his shoulder, head tucked into Wedge’sneck, hands roaming over Wedge’s thigh. Erso is giving them a tacitsmile, so Wedge just lets Bodhi continue, wrapping an arm around hisback.

Almosteveryone utters their thanks to Bodhi, to Jyn, as the party slowlybreaks up. In the end, it’sjust Wedge, Jyn, and Bodhi, sitting round. Jyn helps Wedge get Bodhito his feet – the man isn’t so much drunk as just tired.“Youalright with him?” Jyn asks, and Wedge nods. There’s a briefgoodbye between Bodhi and Jyn, and then Jyn leaves, in the directionof the medbay. Probably to spend another night at Cassian’s side.

Wedgeand Bodhi stagger back to their quarters. As Wedge inputs thekeycode, Bodhi says: “Thanks.”

“Forwhat?” Wedge asks back, pushing the door open.

“Foreverything,” Bodhi says, before kissing Wedge.

Wedgestumbles back in surprise, but Bodhi’shands are firm in Wedge’s shirt, his mouth soft and insistent, andWedge’s gasp merely turns the kiss open-mouthed. Wedge’s hands,initially uncertain, reach up for Bodhi’s hair, one side stilltufty and short from where he’s only just made the decision to growit back out again.

Whenthey break for air, Wedge has the sense to kick the door closedbehind them, before they gain an audience. Knowing the Rebellion,there’sa betting pool somewhere, and he’s in no haste to see it settledbefore he knows what’s going on himself.

Bodhi’seyes are sparkling, and there’s a smile tugging at his lips, and helooks … Wedge would say he looks like himself,only Wedge has never seen Bodhi like this. He looks unburdened, justin this moment. Maybe this is what he looked like, before everything.

“Iquite like you, you know,” Bodhi offers, almost shy.

Wedgetakes him in. “Iquite like you too,” he replies, following Bodhi’s wording, andnot daring to say that he thinks it’s a heck of a lot more thanthat. He pushes Bodhi against the bunk, and kisses him again, andthinks that he could do this forever.

Theyare awoken the next morning by banging on their door.

“Bodhi!”The voice that calls through, at what must be an ungodly hour –it’s gone 0700 by the chrono though – is Jyn Erso’s. She knocksagain, and repeats Bodhi’s name, loud enough that Bodhi rolls overWedge – they share a kiss on the way, Erso isn’t going to ruinall their morning fun – before gathering a sheet to make himselfdecent and opening the door.

“Whatis it Jyn?” he asks, bleary eyed in the face of the harsh corridorlights.

Erso’sface is lit up in wonder, her cheeks flushed, excitement pulsingthrough her veins. “It’s Cassian,” she says. “He woke up.”

#misskatieleigh #wedge antilles #bodhi rook #wedge/bodhi #swfic #myfic #ficlet #mine #star wars #rogue one #is there a standard ship tag I DON'T KNOW #anyway here have some musings about rebellion officers and their demons #there's probably more than one proper fic in here somewhere but finding it is work so here have this in the mean time

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