Archive of Our Own

Months. Years, maybe. Dogma didn’t exactly have a calendar in the tiny white room where they kept him when they weren’t prodding or poking or cutting or testing. Trying to figure out what his defect was, he supposed. He was told nothing. He didn’t even know if we was slated for death, or reconditioning, after they were finished with their tests. When the doctors came into the room for him, he never knew if they were taking him to his death or not. It was, as Kix would have put it, a “relevant stress factor”.

There were no brothers in the medical facility. The guards were all droids. Dogma had no way of getting news from the front, from Captain Rex and the rest of his brothers. He didn’t know if they were alive, dead, if they were winning the war, if Tup was doing ok without him. Sometimes, Dogma would lie on the ground and stare at the ceiling, wondering what bits of it were real and what bits he had imagined. Had he really shot a Jedi? Or did he make that up? Was there a trooper named Jesse with a republic cog tattoo? Had Dogma been part of Captain Rex’s squad, as he sometimes thought, or was it just something he’d wanted for so long, ever since he’d been a cadet, that he’d just convinced himself it was true?

Time smeared together. Dogma didn’t know if he slept anymore or not. It was impossible to tell. When they came one day and put him on a guarded transport, all hush-hush and talking like everyone Dogma knew was dead, Dogma didn’t even notice until the ship was in hyperspace.

The ship slammed abruptly out of lightspeed above a distant red planet, alarms blaring and hull shuddering. Dogma stayed where he was in the cargo hold, wrists held together and the binders magnetically sealed to a mark on the wall. He vaguely listened to the sounds of laser fire, the crunch of boarding clamps, yells and screams from above. It was just like a training sim. Except it wasn’t. Dogma knew it wasn’t. He knew, on some level, that they were being boarded by pirates, but that didn’t stop his mind from matching the battle to the training sims Dogma knew so well. Yes, there’s the shield failure, usually phase 4 of a ship battle sim. Must be a double squad scenario, if we’re getting boarded. He knew that this was real, it was happening, but he couldn’t seem to convince himself that it was happening right now, to him.

When the doors to the cargo bay burst open, Dogma looked up, looking at the intruders with a vague sense of detached curiosity. There was a weequay, wearing goggles and a long coat. A few others behind him that Dogma couldn’t see. The one in the coat approached him, crouched down. Put his hands on him. Removed the binders. Said what have we here? A prisoner? He was smiling. Dogma slumped down the wall where he sat, waiting for them to do whatever it was they had come for. The Weequay took Dogma’s chin and turned it, examining his face. The pirate said something. It took Dogma what felt like an eternity to process it, and when he did, reality slammed back down so hard that he flinched backwards, almost hitting his head on the wall. The pirate had asked for his name. It was the first time another living being had talked to him in years.

He wet his lips and tried to remember how to work his vocal cords.

“...Do- Dog...” His voice caught in his throat. He coughed and tried again. “Dogma. My name is Dogma.” The pirate grinned toothily at him.

“Well, friend Dogma, you are very fortunate to have met me. I am Hondo Ohnaka!” He said it as if announcing a grand revelation. “And I am about to save your life, my friend.” Dogma wished he’d slow down. He wanted to say something, answer him, but he couldn’t parse the words and everything was too loud. “Come with me to my ship, eh?” Hondo Ohnaka said. He stood, extending his hand downwards, almost as if he were offering it to Dogma. Dogma waited. What did Hondo Ohnaka want him to do?

“You know, usually when I offer to save someone’s life, they are grateful.” Hondo Ohnaka said. “Or at least they run away screaming.” Dogma did nothing. “No? No screaming? Well, you don’t have to come with us, friend Dogma, but as we have-” he checked his chrono “-seventy seconds before this ship explodes, I suggest you take advantage of my generous offer.” Dogma wasn’t sure what Hondo Ohnaka expected him to do with that information. So he did nothing. The pirate sighed.

“You know,” he said, “I’m starting to think you don’t want to be saved. Tell you what!” he snapped his fingers and pointed at Dogma. “I’ll save you anyway, you will be very grateful, and we can discuss just how valuable your gratitude is on my ship, yes?” He bent down and hoisted Dogma over his shoulder, lifting him with ease. Dogma considered telling him that he could walk, but Hondo Ohnaka was already moving, gathering his crew and rushing back to their boarding vessel.
__________
Dogma kriffing hated Hondo Ohnaka. He was loud and annoying and invasive and Dogma could never tell when he was being genuine and when he was just fucking with him. And even more, Dogma hated feeling useless. Hondo had told him that he could pay him back by working on his crew, but Dogma was worse than useless. It had taken him two weeks to consistently remember that he could leave the room they gave him without someone coming to get him. It took him even longer to regain the strength necessary to walk all the way to the mess without collapsing. And the ship wasn’t even that big. Three months in, and he was still bouncing from odd job to odd job, fetching this or that, lifting crates when he could. Flinching away from the grumbles of crew members who thought he was stupid, when he asked for clarification or more directions. Who the kriff needs to be told how to wash dishes, they muttered. Dogma. Dogma did. He didn’t want to do it wrong and how the hell was he supposed to know that it didn’t matter what order you washed them in if no one told him?

Dogma couldn’t even fight. His hands shook too much to hold a blaster and the sight of blood made his heart seize up and brought back memories he’d rather not think about. He was a clone trooper, dammit, a member of the 501st, the most elite unit in the GAR. He was supposed to be the best of the best. And he couldn’t even wash the fucking dishes without someone holding his hand. And Hondo fucking Ohnaka wouldn’t leave him the hell alone.

“Dogma!” Hondo cried, bursting into Dogma’s room without knocking. Dogma grunted and rolled over, pulling his blanket higher. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, much less Hondo.
“Come, my friend, it is well past noon. I have a task for you.” Dogma held still. Maybe, if he didn’t move, Hondo would assume he had fallen back asleep and leave. Hondo was lax like that. Another thing Dogma couldn’t stand. Captain Rex would have had him running laps of deck six if he’d found him still in bed at noon. It stressed Dogma out to never know if he was going to get bothered for sleeping in or not.

“Dogma, my friend, you cannot deceive me. I know you are not sleeping.” Hondo said. Dogma could almost see the aborted move Hondo made to reach out and shake him. Hondo was a tactile guy, but he’d learned better with Dogma when he’d come up behind him unexpectedly and tapped him on the shoulder. Dogma had thrown him through a wall.
“What kind of a crewman won’t even listen to his captain?” Hondo said, in that tone that Dogma could never tell whether it was joking or serious. “I am undermined at every turn. Surely my good friend Dogma remembers when I saved his life? When I pulled him out of an exploding ship, risking my own life and limb? Surely he is not so callous, so ungrateful to old Hondo?” Ok, probably joking. Dogma groaned and rolled over, sitting up.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming. Sir.” He said. He knew he didn’t have to call Hondo ‘Sir’. No one else did. Part of him rankled at the notion of addressing someone like Hondo Ohnaka in the same way he’d once addressed General Skywalker and Captain Rex, but a larger part of him flinched away from leaving the honorific out. Clone trooper conditioning was strong. Dogma rubbed his hands over his face and stood, letting the blanket fall to the floor.

“Excellent!” Hondo grinned. Did he have to be so kriffing over-the-top and cheerful all the time? It was goddamn exhausting. Hondo turned and started rifling through the scattered pieces of clothing on Dogma’s floor. “Come on, get dressed. Time to work off some more of your debt to me.”

Dogma ran his fingers through his hair. It was getting longer, brushing past his ears, and looked like a bird’s nest half the time. In the GAR, he’d never have let it get this far, but he just didn’t see the point anymore. The war was over. Dogma still couldn’t figure out whether they’d won or lost. The GAR didn’t give a shit about him, and he didn’t give a shit about his hair. It seemed fair. A dark blue shirt hit him in the face, followed by a pair of pants, another shirt, and a sock.

“Come, come. Put something on. Unless you want to work in that-” he gestured to Dogma’s tank top and sleep shorts. “-which is perfectly fine, I don’t judge.” Dogma grunted in reply, and began sorting through the random articles of clothing that Hondo continued to throw at him until he had a semblance of an outfit. Dogma’s clothes had mostly come from the large communal junk room back on Florrum, where Hondo’s pirate crews chucked anything not valuable enough to sell. But Hondo had insisted on buying some of Dogma’s clothing new, and not exactly cheaply, either. Dogma had tried protesting, but Hondo had insisted that he couldn’t have his crews running around looking like beggars. He’d further handwaved Dogma’s protests with don’t worry about the cost, my friend. I will simply add it to your ledger and you can work for me just a little bit longer to pay me back. Dogma had yet to see how long a sentence the blue wool coat that he’d secretly come to really like had earned him. The material was supposed to keep him warm in the winter, cool in the summer, and offer some protection against shrapnel and blaster bolts. Dogma had yet to be shot while wearing it (luckily), but he could confirm that it performed as otherwise advertised. And it was comfy. And blue. It reminded him of his brothers. And on days like today, it felt like a protective shield around him.

He pulled on the coat after lacing up his boots, Hondo waiting for him, tapping his boot (Hondo, Dogma found, was incapable of standing still). When Dogma was ready, Hondo led him down a deck to the ship’s kitchen. It was a tiny, cramped room, stains covering almost every surface and some of the walls. There were dishes stacked on every surface, and the only other door, leading, Dogma assumed, to food storage, was crooked and didn’t shut right.

“Am I supposed to clean this up, sir?” Dogma asked, looking dubiously at the disaster.

“No. Well, maybe.” Hondo said. “If it is necessary. But I did not bring you here to clean, my friend. I brought you here to cook!”

“What.” Dogma said flatly.

“Cook!” Hondo said. “Our dear cook Dave departed earlier this morning, you see. Urgent business, couldn’t be helped. So now my brave crew finds itself lacking a chef. But I thought, my good friend Dogma, who owes me his life, is perfect for the job! I am sure you are a wonderful cook, yes?” Dogma had a sneaking suspicion that Dave’s sudden departure, in a section of open space with no planet in sight, might have something to do with Dave’s habit of skimming off of the crew’s common slush fund.

“Sir, I have literally never cooked a single thing in my life.” Dogma said. “I don’t think you want me trying to cook food for twenty people.”

“No matter, no matter,” Hondo said, waving a hand dismissively. “You are Dogma! You will find a way! You can follow the directions, they call it a recipe, yes? You will do fine!” Hondo smiled at him. “Everything you need is in here. Probably. I think.” He turned to abandon Dogma to certain failure. “Besides, no one will think to complain about whatever you cook. It is sure to be better than Dave’s.” With that, Hondo left the kitchen. Dogma allowed himself a brief five-minute meltdown before comforting himself with the fact that he could probably scrape the stains off of the walls and serve that to the crew and still out-class Dave’s cooking. He sorted himself out, straightened his coat, and left the kitchen to find Keen, the unofficial quartermaster, and one of the few crew members that Dogma didn’t actively want to avoid.

Back in the kitchen with the borrowed datapad, Dogma wasted two hours skimming through recipes and cooking instructions, looking up terms like “simmer” and “braise” and trying to calculate serving sizes in his head. The task of finding a recipe brought him to frustrated tears three times. The pantry was a goddamn war zone and he had to somehow find a recipe that was simple enough for him to cook (which was in itself a guess, because Dogma had never cooked before), make sure he had the utensils and pans to cook it (did it matter what size pan you used? How full could you fill a pot?), and make sure he had the necessary ingredients to cook twenty meals’ worth (when you multiplied a recipe, did you just double or triple the ingredients linearly? Or if you had more food, did it take proportionally more seasoning to flavor it?). The entire concept of putting things in food exclusively to make it taste better was foreign to Dogma. He ended up pulling a credit chip out of his pocket (which, he had credits now, thanks Hondo) and flipping it to make decisions. You can’t be as bad as Dave became his mantra as he worked.

Dogma emerged from the kitchen hours later, sweaty, frustrated, annoyed, and exhausted. He poked his head into the common room, where most of the crew were engaged in round three of the Monthly Ohnaka Gang Sabaac Direct Elimination Extravaganza, and said “There is something resembling food in the kitchen. Someone else is doing the dishes, or I will poison you all.” He turned and stalked back to the kitchen, grabbing his coat, which he’d removed hours ago because the kitchen had no ventilation, and a plate of the slightly burned, mushy attempt at stir-fry he’d made. He took it back to his quarters, where he wouldn’t have to deal with being surrounded by other people. He ate in peace, sitting on the floor and leaning his back against his bed. The stir-fry genuinely wasn’t half-bad. Especially compared to Dave’s cooking.

Dogma was almost finished, and contemplating whether to return his plate to the kitchen, or just shove it into the corner and forget about it, when the door hissed open and Hondo walked in.

“Dogma!” He said, grinning and radiating exuberance as usual. He plopped himself down next to Dogma. “I knew you could do it. I was right to entrust this to you, my friend.” Dogma smiled down at his plate a bit. Hondo might bug the crap out of him, but Dogma was willing to admit that he liked that Hondo called him “my friend” all the time. No one else had ever done that. It was nice.

“So, better than Dave’s?” Dogma said.

“Weeellll, not to speak ill of the dead- I mean, the, uh, retired crewmen,” Hondo said, “but yes. Much better. Thank god.”

“Good.” Dogma said. “Glad I could do something right.” Hondo made a move as if to clap him on the shoulder, but thought better of it.

“Ah, Dogma, I am sure you can do many things. I knew, when I found you, I took one look at you and said, that Dogma, he is a great man! And he will be on my crew! Hondo Ohnaka has an eye for acquisition. I never invest in something that’s not worth it.” Dogma snorted.

“Now you’re just taking the piss, sir.”
Hondo laid a hand across his heart.

“Dogma, my friend, I am wounded! When have I ever been anything less than sincere and honest?” Dogma let out an outright bark of laughter at that.

“Alright, maybe not honest.” Hondo amended. “But I am glad we have found your place here, Dogma.” He laid a hand on Dogma’s knee, moving slowly enough that Dogma could stop him if he wanted to. Dogma didn’t stop him. He leaned his head back onto the mattress behind him and closed his eyes. He was exhausted.

“Thank you, sir.” he said. He meant it.

“You can thank me with your continued service in the kitchen, my friend. If you ever wish to pay off your debt to me, that is.” Hondo stood and left, taking Dogma’s empty plate with him.

That night, Dogma lay awake in bed, scrolling through holonet articles and taking notes. Cooking didn’t seem so bad, really, now that he wasn’t under pressure to not kriff it up. Lots of decisions to make, but once he picked something, there would be a clear set of directions to follow. He might not be able to hold a blaster anymore, but this, this he could do.

__________

“Damn, Dogma, this is good. What is this?”

“Corellian-style bantha roast, but I substituted meiloorun root for the tubers and threw in some citreen flakes.”

“I have no idea what that means, and I don’t care. Whatever you did, it’s really good.” Gorana said. He’d joined the crew about a year after Dogma had. Dogma shrugged.

“It’s food.” He didn’t like boasting about his food, but he did enjoy the praise of his crewmates. Three years on Hondo’s crew, and he still hadn’t picked up a blaster. He didn’t know if his hands would still shake, and he didn’t particularly care, either. He was done shooting at things on someone else’s orders. Things were alright. He missed his brothers fiercely. He still had nightmares. Last night he’d woken up in a cold sweat after dreaming about Fives criticising his cooking, of all things. Fives had taken one bite, looked at him, and said “I hope you can live with yourself, Dogma.” It was like his least favorite memories kept bubbling up through perfectly ordinary dreams, combining in sometimes absurd, sometimes terrifying ways, conspiring to send him wandering the corridors of Hondo’s ship at all hours of the night.

Sometimes, when he had the energy to handle it, Dogma would wander his way to the bridge. More often than not, Hondo would be there, looking over maps or finances, or sometimes reading the cheesy romance novels he liked. Dogma had no idea when he slept. Hondo never asked him why he was awake; he always just acted like being awake at oh-three-thirty was the most ordinary thing in the world. Sometimes they talked, or rather, Hondo talked, about potential hits, about problems among the crewmembers, who was upset at whom or who missed their family, and what Hondo was planning to do about it. Sometimes Hondo would expound on some absurd philosophical line, usually his own personal life philosophy, contradicting himself wildly, with constant references to things his ‘dear mother’ had told him growing up. Sometimes, he’d regale Dogma with tales from his past, mixing truth and what Dogma was almost certain had to be fiction with impunity. The worse Dogma’s nightmare had been, the more absurd and fantastical Hondo’s story. Dogma would let Hondo’s words wash over him, reminding himself that he was here, now, and the past couldn’t touch him outside his dreams. A few times, Hondo had read aloud passages from his novels, expounding on the literary technique of the writing. Dogma knew precisely fuck and shit about literature, so he figured he might as well take Hondo’s word for it until someone told him exactly how Hondo was pulling his leg.

Dogma left Gorana behind, leaving the common room and returning to the kitchen. He’d never managed to remove the ghosts of those stains from the walls, but at least there was maneuvering room and a meticulous organization to it now. Dogma was quite nitpicky about the state of his kitchen, even if his own quarters were a disaster more often than not. He grabbed a disposable plate from the box in the cupboard. Today was an eating-in-his-room kind of day. That weird Fives dream had left him feeling jumpy and on edge all day, in addition to feeling a bit stupid about it. Seriously, Fives criticizing his cooking was not the terrifying scenario his subconscious seemed to be trying to convince him it was. Dogma was filling his plate from the pot on the stove when Hondo entered the kitchen, somehow managing his usual dramatic flourish despite keeping his hands behind his back. Dogma refused to wonder what he was holding.

“Ah, my dear Dogma! I was hoping to catch you.” Hondo said. “I have something for you.” From behind his back, he produced a large silver soup ladle, laying it in Dogma’s hands with a flourish.

“Oh good.” Dogma said. “I only asked for this three weeks ago. Since, you know, Gorana shot a hole in my other one.” He gave Hondo a flat look.

“Yes, and here is a new one, as requested.” Hondo said, his signature Hondo Grin firmly in place.

“How did it take you three kriffing weeks to get ahold of a ladle? Sir.” Dogma said. It was a “sir” kind of day as well, apparently. It had become a lot easier for Dogma to drop the honorific, but some days he only had so much energy to devote to ignoring the military protocol embedded in his genes and reinforced with childhood conditioning.

“Ah, these things take time, Dogma.” Hondo said, lowering his voice somewhat, and taking a small step back from Dogma so as not to crowd him. “I couldn’t just get you any ladle. This is a ladle that will feed my entire crew. Hondo only delivers the best. I had to be sure it was of top quality, the right size to fit your hand, the right design to fit your style-” Dogma snorted.

“Alright, alright, thanks, sir. I guess I’ll do stew tomorrow or something. We should probably use up the potatoes, anyway.”

“By the way, my friend,” Hondo said, and Dogma groaned internally. “Such a perfect ladle does not come cheap. But I’m sure you can pay me back by staying on as my cook a little longer. After you pay me back for saving your life, of course.” Dogma snorted. Hondo was always claiming that every single little thing he did for Dogma added on to the time that Dogma had to stay to “pay off his debt”. He also constantly assigned wildly high monetary values to the meals Dogma cooked, claiming he’d subtract it from the amount Dogma owed, but somehow never actually told Dogma just how much Hondo considered saving his life to be worth. It had taken Dogma an embarrassingly long time to realize that Hondo didn’t have an actual ledger and wasn’t actually tracking this stuff, he was just... being Hondo.

“Come on.” Dogma said. “This shouldn’t add to the debt, you bought this with the group funds for group use. Yeah, I’m not going to let anyone else touch it, but it’s for cooking for the whole crew, it’s a communal ladle. If I don’t own it it doesn’t add to my debt.”

“I am afraid you are incorrect, my friend.” Hondo said. “This is not a public ladle. This is your ladle. You see?” He reached over and turned the ladle over in Dogma’s hands. Engraved in the handle in loopy, flowing script was the word “Dogma”. Hondo fucking Ohnaka had gotten Dogma’s name monogrammed onto his kriffing ladle. Of course he had. Dogma huffed out a laugh, feeling the corners of his mouth raise.

“Aha! There, I have made you smile!” Hondo declared. “I have done my duty, and you are now free to return to your quarters.” Dogma felt his cheeks flush.
______

Dogma frowned, pausing on his way through the common room. Hondo was explaining to the crew- half of them new- the plan of attack for the business liner they’d gotten a trace on. Dogma refused to think of Hondo’s dramatic performance- complete with sound effects- as a briefing. Hondo’s plan would probably work, but....

“You should send out the zipper skiff first, not second.” Dogma said. Hondo nodded, thinking it through. Dogma knew that Hondo was putting together the same pieces he had- the zipper was nimble enough to dodge the shots from the liner’s single nose gun, and if it could get close enough to disable the shields, the liner would likely surrender without a fight.

“You are right as always, my dear Dogma. Change of plans, everyone! We do what Dogma says!” One of the assembled crewmen rolled his eyes.

“Oh, so we’re letting the cook plan the attacks now?” Someone else elbowed him in the ribs. He was new. He’d learn. Dogma didn’t offer advice unless he knew he was right. And right or not, everyone on this ship listened to Dogma. The new guy grumbled, but relented. Dogma shrugged and continued into the kitchen, considering how much extra phantom pepper to add to the new guy’s food that night.
___________

Sleeping was still not Dogma’s strong suit. Oh-two-hundred hours saw him up and wandering the ship as usual, blue coat thrown on over his sleep clothes. Hondo wasn’t on the bridge, so Dogma sat in the pilot’s chair, staring out at the weird streaks of hyperspace. He felt restless and tense, too wound up to zone out. He stood and paced. He kind of wished Hondo were here. He somehow always knew the best way to distract Dogma. Four steps across the bridge, four steps back. Turn. Repeat. Feeling like he was going to vibrate out of his skin, Dogma left the bridge. His feet carried him down the ship’s corridors, to the door to Hondo’s quarters. Dogma hesitated. Should he knock? What if Hondo was sleeping? Dogma didn’t want to wake him up. Was he allowed to be here? What if Hondo thought he was being invasive? He firmly dismissed the irrational thoughts. Of course he was allowed to be here, he’d been in here plenty of times, just not at ass-o’clock in the morning before. Hondo’s default sense of personal space was zero, there’s no reason he’d think Dogma was being invasive. Before he could talk himself out of it, Dogma steeled himself and knocked on the door.

There was a shuffling sound from inside the room, a thud, and a muffled “Oof!” The door slid open.

“Ah, Dogma!” Hondo said. He was wearing loose pants and an old shirt, and had his blanket wrapped around him like a cape. “To what do I owe the pleasure? A bit early for breakfast, no?” His eyes crinkled up in that familiar smile.

“No, I just, um,” Dogma mumbled. He wasn’t good at talking about this stuff. Or at asking for things. What could he say? I had a stupid dream and I want you to say something ridiculous and dumb to make me forget about it?

“Say no more!” Hondo declared. “I know why you are here. Come, come!” He took Dogma by the arm and tugged him into the room. “Of course, I never finished telling you about the time I single-handedly saved the life of the Senator from Ryloth. Or was it Ragoo? No matter.” He shoved his pillows aside and sat Dogma down at the head of the bed, leaning against the headboard. He plopped himself down next to Dogma. “You are curious, and as I am a generous man, I will finish the story for you. Now, where did I leave off?” Dogma let out a breath and leaned against Hondo slightly. “Ah, yes! The starcruiser!” Hondo snapped his fingers, answering his own question. He flung a leathery arm around Dogma’s shoulders and picked up the story.

“.... and this is my dear mother- is she not beautiful- just after she liberated Florrum from the Trade Federation. And liberated a lot of wealth from their viceroy!” Dogma leaned in to see the hologram Hondo was showing him. The Senator story had taken Hondo almost an hour to finish, and Dogma was pretty sure most of it had been outright fabrication. Dogma hadn’t had to say anything to get Hondo to launch into another story, for which he was grateful. Now Hondo had moved on to showing Dogma pictures of his mother, himself as a child, favorite ships he’d stolen, and random snapshots from his collection.

“She was the best pirate the Galaxy has ever seen. I learned everything I know from her.” Dogma already knew that. Hondo cited his mother in everyday conversation like a twitchy academic paranoid about being accused of plagiarizing. Except that Dogma got the impression that Hondo just wanted everyone to think his mother was as amazing as he thought she was.

“You know what she always said to me when I was a child?” Hondo asked rhetorically. “She said- well, she said Hondo, get that out of your nose. She said that rather a lot, actually.” Dogma huffed a small laugh.

“She also said, Hondo, sometimes the Galaxy is a dark place. And sometimes it seems like the path before you is dark and empty, and the only other path you can see is even darker. But you know what that means? That means that the first path is brighter. Always choose the brighter path, Hondo, even if it’s dark. And never trust a tax collector.” Dogma let his head droop onto Hondo’s shoulder. Hondo was quite happy to talk for hours without a single word of input from him, and that was one of Dogma’s favorite things about him. He was warm. Hondo had wrapped a blanket around him when he’d started to shiver despite the coat. He felt secure. The buzzing feeling in his chest had dissipated. As Hondo blabbered on about his mother’s life lessons, Dogma let his eyelids drift shut.
_______

“Dogma!” Hondo cried, throwing his arms around Dogma and squeezing. Dogma let him. Hondo had taken to wrapping him in massive hugs at random opportunities, including whenever he returned to the ship from whatever he needed to do dirtside. As long as he approached Dogma from the front, he didn’t mind.

“I got the supplies,” he said, once Hondo had released him. “But we should clear out. Imperials are swarming the place.”

“That is troublesome.” Hondo said, following Dogma as he walked through the cargo bay. “First they chase us off of Florrum, and now it seems they are taking over the entire Outer Rim. Government overreach, I say.” Dogma nodded.

“Maybe we should move our operations further afield.” He said. “Not as many opportunities, but we’ll be safer with less Imperial presence.”
_______

“I think you should keep this one.” Dogma said, pointing over Hondo’s shoulder at one of the profiles on Hondo’s viewscreen. “She seems to fit in well with the rest of the crew.” That, and she had told Dogma his Alderaanian Lukfa was the best thing she’d ever tasted. Hondo nodded. Downsizing the crew was a massive pain in the ass, but with the Imperials swarming all over the place, they needed to be keeping a lower profile.

“Then she stays. Your opinions never lead me astray, Dogma.” Dogma leaned over Hondo’s shoulder.

“While you’re listening to me then, dump this one, this one, and this one.” he pointed to three of the new crew members’ profiles. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth. Oh, and also this one. He insulted my cooking.”

“How dare he.” Hondo shook his head, sounding deeply offended. “Shall I eject him from the ship right now, or wait until we are in space?”
______
Seven years since the end of the war. Hondo’s ship now operated on a skeleton crew of eight. These days, they lived out of the ship permanently, jumping from system to system and never establishing a permanent base. Hondo sometimes bitched about the days when he’d ruled over the citadel on Florrum, leading an armada of fifty ships (the number varied wildly depending on Hondo’s mood) and commanded hundreds of pirates. Dogma missed the old days, too, but overall, things were good.

“Don’t put that in the sink, you kriffing moron.” He said. The new girl let out a squeak and almost dropped the knife she’d been about to dump into the soapy water. Dogma folded his arms. “You wanna reach in to grab a plate and impale your hand? Didn’t think so. Wash the knives separately.” The girl nodded. Why did he have to look over everyone’s shoulder if he wanted the dishes done right?
_____

The Empire caught up with them over Saan Gad. It was just a small patrol ship, but more than heavily armed enough to force them to surrender. Stormtroopers in gleaming white swept through the corridors. Hondo stood from the captain’s chair on the bridge, turning to face the door. Dogma, beside him, turned just in time to see three stormtroopers burst in, blasters raised.

“Surrender, pirate scum!” The one in front said. “Get your hands in the air!” Dogma took one look at the idiot and burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. The idiot looked like someone had handed a blaster to a teenager in a cheap costume. Hondo gave him a questioning look.

“Shut up and get your hands in the air! Final warning!” The stormtrooper shouted. Dogma didn’t bother.

“You’re holding it wrong.” he told the stormtrooper.

“What?”

“You’ve got your bracing hand too high on the grip and your whole angle’s bad. You couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn aiming like that.”

“Shut it, you-” Dogma interrupted him by darting forward, ducking under his wild shot, and punching him right in the face. His flimsy helmet did nothing to protect him and he crumpled. The other two troopers turned, yelling and bringing their blasters to bear. Hondo dispatched one with a neat shot and Dogma slammed the other into the ground with a hard takedown he’d been able to do in his sleep since he was three.

“What a disgrace.” he said, nudging the one he’d punched with his boot. “An embarrassment to the name of soldier, if you ask me.” Hondo came over to stand next to him.
“Is this how they’re training the natborns these days?” Dogma continued. “Look at this poor bastard, he can’t even buckle his armor on right. He’s got the strap twisted.”

“I am glad that we are facing these, instead of you and your brothers, my dear.” Hondo said.

“Captain Rex would have been ashamed at what’s become of the GAR these days.” Dogma said. He stepped over the prone Stormtrooper, shaking his head.

“You must tell me more about this Captain Rex of yours, Dogma.” Hondo said, collecting the blasters of the fallen Stormtroopers. “You have mentioned him, but you never say more.” Dogma shrugged.

“Was he handsome?” Hondo grinned.

“I uh, um, I guess? Maybe?” Dogma considered.

“Was he as handsome as me?”

“Oh, definitely not.” Dogma said, rolling his eyes.

“That is good to hear. You can tell me more later. Now, let us go and take back our ship.” Hondo followed Dogma out of the bridge. Dogma left the blasters to Hondo. He hadn’t touched one in almost a decade, and he had no intention to start now. If he had to beat these insults to his brothers over the head with his ladle, then so be it.
_______
They lost the ship, eventually. They kept losing crew members to Imperial prisons or blaster fire, or simply leaving due to the danger. Hondo had asked, in his roundabout Hondo way, if Dogma intended to leave, as well.

“Of course not, I still have a debt to pay, remember?” Dogma told him. Hondo beamed and embraced him.

“How lucky am I to have a friend of such strong moral fiber!” He released Dogma, but his arms remained around him for a long moment. Briefly, it seemed like he might do something else, but instead, he clapped Dogma on the shoulder and stepped away. Dogma was left feeling like a star had taken up residence in his chest, and a swarm of butterflies in his stomach.
________
Eleven years after the end of the war, and it was just them. They changed ships frequently, jumping from job to job in whatever banged up junker they could get their hands on. Dogma did his best to make them space-worthy. He was nowhere near as good at mechanics as Fives or General Skywalker had been, but he wasn’t bad, either. He’d salvaged the cooking range from the last one, which was now mercifully resting in pieces on a cold moon, and installed it in their current tin can, since it lacked anything more than a food warmer. He’d learned to improvise with limited supplies and tools.

The years were catching up to him. He had streaks of silver in his hair, and lines on his face. His knees complained at him sometimes. Hondo had frowned when he’d explained about the accelerated aging, and had actually sulked in his room for a few days before his usual cheer came back.

Dogma kept very few things over the years. The only two things he made sure to take with him every time was his blue coat, patched and worn, and the monogrammed ladle. It was, indeed, good quality. Aside from a few scratches and a dent from a Stormtrooper helmet, it was in the same condition it had been when it was new.

They did a lot of hiding and running, these days. The Imperials had placed a large-ish bounty on Hondo’s head. Hondo had been insulted on Dogma’s behalf that they hadn’t also placed one on him.

“You are easily half the mastermind behind our success. It is so rude of them to ignore you like that.” Dogma rolled his eyes fondly, not even bothering to explain why it was a good thing not to be wanted by the Empire. Dogma’s low profile came in handy many times. Like right now. Hondo had gotten himself arrested two weeks ago, and the Stormtroopers had dragged him right past Dogma without a second glance. Dogma had spent a weekend enjoying the solitude, before buckling down and doing some research. Now, he sat himself down at the table in their current ship’s tiny common room, scrolling through his datapad. He took a sip of caf, and began assembling a list of people who owed them favors. Hopefully, one of them would be willing to bring Hondo all the way back here, so Dogma wouldn’t even have to leave port.
______
Hondo liked to describe their first kiss as if it were a scene directly out of a soap opera, complete with a daring rescue and Hondo dramatically dipping him. Or the other way around, depending on the telling. In reality, it was mundane. Dogma’s head was buried in the guts of their hyperdrive. A pot of soup was boiling on the jerry-rigged burner next to the pilot’s seat. Hondo came in, striding up the ramp.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dogma wiped his hands on a rag. He turned to meet Hondo’s embrace.

“Welcome back.” he said. Hondo released him, but Dogma left his hands on his shoulders. Dogma had no idea what put the thought into his head. Maybe it was the way Hondo’s eyes crinkled up when he did his “smiling at Dogma” smile. Or the way his lips pulled back when he grinned. Or the way that every time he said his name, every time he embraced him, he sounded absolutely thrilled to see him again. Whatever it was, Dogma leaned forward and kissed him.

“How did it go?”

Hondo’s arms were still around his waist.

“Very well. I have a lead on a job.” Hondo raised one of his hands to Dogma’s cheek. “And even better, I come home and you kiss me.” Dogma flushed and looked down.

“Yeah. Well. I don’t know why I didn’t do that years ago.” He gave Hondo a small smile. “So how much does that pay off? Of my debt?”

“Ah, my dear Dogma.” Hondo smiled at him. “You have given me something of immense value. But you are no closer to paying off your debt to me. You see, I saved your life, and you? You are priceless.”

Dogma was almost embarrassed at how warm and schmoopy that made him feel inside.

“So you see it is hopeless! Ha!” Hondo declared. He leaned down and pressed another kiss to Dogma’s lips. “You will be in debt to me forever, my dear Dogma.”

After that, Dogma converted his quarters into a proper kitchen. It wasn’t like he needed to sleep in there anymore.
_____________
Hondo’s schemes grew wilder and more ridiculous. No matter how many times he gambled and they lost everything, Hondo always grinned and said “on to the next one!” Dogma was able to talk him down from some of his more absurd ideas, or at least suggest better ways to go about it. He was happy.

They married for convenience, twelve years into their partnership, a little over a year since Dogma had first kissed him. They’d been forced to sell their latest junker for cash on a small colony world, and they intended to find their way off-world to the nearest planet “hospitable to an honest businessman and his partner”, as Hondo put it. Meaning, a world where there was a robust enough black market for them to get ahold of an unregistered ship. The planet they were stuck on only had two spaceports, and travel permits weren’t cheap. Dogma did a bit of research, and found the necessary forms online.

“Here, sign this.” He shoved the datapad across the table at Hondo. Hondo scrawled his name without reading a word and gave the datapad back.
“Good. We can afford a permit now.” Dogma said, pulling up the permit application. Hondo raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s cheaper to apply as a married couple.” Dogma explained.

Once Hondo stopped (mostly) bitching at Dogma for robbing him of the chance to do a dramatic romantic proposal, he took great pride in introducing him as “my husband, Dogma.” Dogma had to admit, it did sound nice.
_______
Dogma woke up from a nightmare. Fives, again. Fives’ face beneath the buckets of a hundred dead Stormtroopers that Dogma had shot. Next to him, Hondo stirred. He was a light sleeper. Dogma had never managed to avoid waking him up when he had a nightmare.

“Dogma?” A leathery hand found his own. Dogma took it. “Are you alright, my dear?”

“Yeah. Just a bad dream.” Dogma said.

“Well, then. Since you are already awake,” Hondo drew him closer. “Let me tell you about that kid I met on Vizago’s ship.” Dogma laid his head on Hondo’s shoulder and threw an arm over his chest. Hondo drew him close, arm wrapped around his shoulders.

“His name is Ezra, but he lied and told me it was Lando. I met his mother later, you know. Lovely woman. Excellent pilot. She must have raised him right.” Dogma sighed and let Hondo’s words wash over him. He’d already heard this story, at least fifty times, ever since Hondo had come back from the Vizago job. Hondo had developed a massive soft spot for the Jedi kid. Hondo was rubbing little circles into his shoulder with this thumb, and Dogma could feel the rumble of his voice against his cheek. Here, fourteen years later and in the arms of his husband, Fives’ accusing stare seemed very far away.
_______
Dogma knew his husband. With the amount of time that Hondo spent talking about that kid and his “amazing potential!”, Dogma knew he’d end up meeting him sooner or later. Hondo thought it was just adorable that Ezra was shocked every time Hondo double-crossed him. (“Every! Single! Time! He never expects it!”) Dogma thought it was adorable that Hondo kept wishfully describing how he’d teach Ezra how to be a proper pirate if he ever joined his crew.

They were headed to a rendezvous with what Dogma had discerned, through Hondo’s hand waving and dissembling, was the kriffing Rebel Fleet. Hondo had found an excuse to give the Rebels information on some sort of arms facility that they’d probably want to destroy. He’d insisted on handing over the information in person, “to avoid any Imperial interference, you understand.”

Dogma landed their ship in the docking bay of the Corellian cruiser. Hondo was bounding down the ramp as soon as he lowered it. As he rose to follow him, he heard Hondo cry “Ezra, my boy!”

Smiling to himself, Dogma walked down the ramp. Hondo was in the process of squeezing the life out of a dark-haired kid who looked about the same age as a graduating cadet. Behind him, a number of people were approaching their ship. Dogma spotted a green twi’lek in a pilot jumpsuit and a girl in Mandalorian armor before Hondo grabbed his arm and yanked him over. The boy, able to breath again, gasped in a lungful of air.

“My dear, this is Ezra, the one I have been telling you about!”

“Hi.” Dogma told the boy.

“Um, hey.” Ezra said. Dogma thought he might be able to see why Hondo liked him so much. He looked a bit like an earnest puppy.

“Ohnaka,” the twi’lek woman said. She and her crew had reached them. “I trust you have the information you promised?”

“Ah, Captain Syndulla!” Hondo said, turning his dazzling smile on her. “Of course I do. But can we not have a moment between old friends?”

“Sure, you can start with introductions. Who’s your friend here?” She nodded at Dogma, her arms folded.

“Certainly, certainly! My dear, this is Captain Syndulla, who pilots the Ghost, and this is her crew, whom I am certain have names as well. Ezra, everyone else, this is my-”

“Dogma?”

Dogma froze. That voice. He knew that voice. A brother’s voice. He hadn’t heard a brother’s voice since Umbara. And that voice, he heard that voice in his dreams, echoing in his head, saying stand down, Dogma. A man was pushing his way through the gathered crew of the Ghost. Battered Phase II armor, pieces missing. Chipped and scratched paint, the same blue as his coat.

“Captain?” he whispered. He couldn’t seem to make his voice work. And then Captain Rex was striding forward, enveloping Dogma in a fierce hug. Dogma hugged back just as fiercely. It was really him. It was Captain Rex. He’d survived, he was here, and he was embracing Dogma as a brother. Captain Rex released the hug, but didn’t let go of Dogma, putting his hand on the back of his neck and pressing their foreheads together.

“Dogma, I can’t believe- I thought you were dead.” Rex’s face was wet. So was Dogma’s. Inside, he felt the old guilt welling up, sticking in his throat.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I never meant-”

“I know. I know. It’s not your fault. You have nothing to apologize for.” Rex said. “I’m the one who’s sorry, Dogma. I failed you.” Dogma shook his head.

“I betrayed you all. I obeyed that- that- and Fives-”

“Fives never blamed you.” Rex said.

“What?” Dogma was so shocked he stopped crying.

“Fives never blamed you. After Umbara, we tried to find you, but the Kaminoans only told us you’d been decommissioned. I don’t think Fives ever really forgave me for letting them take you.”

“Kriff. That’s- kriff, I never expected to hear that, sir.”

“I never expected to see you again.” Rex said.

“I never expected you to grow a beard, sir.”
Rex drew back and barked a laugh.

“Look at us.” he said. “We both got old.”

“Yeah.” Dogma wiped his face as discreetly as he could. “We did.” he didn’t even try to stop the smile spreading across his face, matching the one on Rex’s. So many of them hadn’t had the chance to grow old. Fives. Sergeant Waxer. Dogma’s batchmates. But here they were, Dogma and Captain Rex, white-headed and wrinkled, a decade and a half after the war they’d been built to die for.

“Ahem.” Hondo tapped Dogma on the shoulder. “Dogma, is this the Captain Rex that you have told me so much about?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Dogma said, turning to his husband. “Hondo, this is Captain Rex. Sir-”

“We’ve met.” Rex said shortly. “I know Hondo Ohnaka.” His eyes were narrowed in a look that Dogma recognized. Troopers and Jedi alike had all known to fear Captain Rex’s “overprotective big brother” face.

“Dogma, what are you doing with this bastard?” Rex asked. Dogma winced internally. Well, shit. He cleared his throat, looking anywhere but at Captain Rex. This was not going to go over well.

“Sir, this is my husband.”
_________

FIN

I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY

P.S. when Dogma walked down the ramp and saw Ezra for the first time, he got a momentary headache and the brief, inexplicable urge to whack Ezra over the head with a ladle. Luckily, biochips degrade over time.