Work Text:
Hacksaw didn’t fully remember what had happened that day.
It was understandable- logical, in that medical part of his brain, to have his memory impacted after such a traumatizing event. The incident was in several reports from various other vode, and printed in stark letters inside his secret secondary medical files- the ones where no one but themselves could access.
But it would still be nice to recall all the little details on his own.
He hadn’t been assigned with the Coruscant Guard for very long when it had occurred, perhaps half a year that had already felt like a lifetime. There was a mission somewhere within the lower levels, something about busting a smuggling ring, but Hacksaw hadn’t been assigned to the mission. In fact, he had been on his rare time off, using his skills from his black-ops days to try to bolster their meager medical supplies.
When the explosion rocked the whole block, Hacksaw hadn’t thought twice before he dove into the flames to search for his vode just like he had in the red-stained sands of Geonosis.
This time, though, he hadn’t the protection of his armor, and his respiratory system hadn’t quite been the same since Geonosis to start with, and the inky black smoke of burning fuel and paint was nothing to the noxious clouds he’d ran head first into from the centuries of chemical deposits and illicit goods burning.
He couldn’t recall anything after his initial entry into the flames, his memory spotty beyond the familiar heat and the occasional stirring of consciousness in the medbay days later, but according to the other accounts, he’d saved lives both in physical rescues and providing medical aide before others could arrive.
It didn’t come without its price.
Hacksaw shifted, settling deeper into the confines of the blankets nestled around him as he carefully worked his arm around the hose connecting him to the oxygen bottle nearby. The nasal cannula tickled against his skin, but he ignored it as he retrained his eyes on the soft glow of the datapad in his lap, watching the live feed of reports from all over the GAR filtered through.
He’d thought it’d be hard, at first, being mostly confined to stationary existence, but it had been clear since he awoke fully for the first time since the incident that his body simply could not keep up with his previous way of living. Fresh scars overlapped older ones, the pain a dull throb against his heartbeat when he overtaxed himself for days at a time. His body was often too tired to do more than the basics, but some days were good days, where he could either relax without the need of extra oxygen or fish out his travel bottle to sneak further up within the Guard headquarters and into one of the medbays where he could busy himself with inventory or simple bandaging.
Bad days were the days where he could barely keep himself awake. Coruscant may be consistent weather on the sky levels, but further down the temperatures and humidity levels would dip and spike as they pleased. Cold, damp days always made his lungs seize up as if someone had grabbed them with their hands and were squeezing them, and days were seismic activity caused the dust to snow out from the ceiling made the back of his throat tickle and coughs rattle through his chest. And some days there was nothing wrong at all with the environment and instead his body had decided to protest- an illness creeping in, too much exercise the day before, simply just because.
He lived with it, just as he lived with everything else so far. Complaining never got anyone anywhere but nowhere good, and so Hacksaw learned to simply roll with this new norm much as he had when he first awoke after Geonoisis with no voice and unable to smell or taste much at all.
At least here, he had his vode.
The Coruscant Guard were unique in every way that Kamino tried to eradicate. They were a jumble of mismatched people, with very few lucky enough to maintain one or two members of their batch to work alongside. Most were those who would’ve been slated for decommissioning if the Jedi hadn’t stepped in, and more who would’ve been decommissioned by the Senate they served under if they hadn’t been carefully shuffled away out of sight and out of mind by their fellow vode.
In his condition, Hacksaw would’ve been better off decommissioned. He was a strain on resources, putting in minimal work due to the limitations of his health. And yet the Guard, who were already struggling, tucked him in onto a stolen beanbag chair wide enough for four with patchwork quilts and chunky woolen sweaters given to them by a team of Outer-Rim traders who’d made the emergency stop to Coruscant only for repairs and had bartered the fabrics for tattoos from Etch down on his chosen market corner he set up on the first and last Benduday of the month for extra credits or supplies.
They took care of him, and he took care of them too in any way he could.
A soft gurbling noise came from under his elbow, the flowery quilt churning a little as a warm body grumbled at his shifting and snuggled in closer to his warmth. Hacksaw settled a scarred hand on the curls peeking out from the edge of the quilt, combing gently across the scalp until they settled, fingers fisting into his sweater.
This was one thing Hacksaw cherished, out of all the pain and limitations he lived with. He hadn’t been a particularly approachable man when he’d first joined the Guard- Alpha-classes were notoriously difficult, and the Guard’s previous sole example only exasperated that. Hacksaw was new, taller, and larger, who walked on silent feet and spoke not a word. It was reasonable of them to be wary, careful around this new, dangerous person, but Hacksaw had never wanted to be a dangerous person.
It took time, but his fellow vode had slowly warmed up to him. He’d loved them regardless, couldn’t help it, because they were his vode, how could he hate them? It had hurt to be under scrutiny, but he understood, and he had been patient.
By the time of the incident, he’d been readily welcomed in small affectionate touches, in which he secretly relished in. So many of them within the Guard were starved of any sort of affection, and Hacksaw craved to give it, to gently pass his love through soft brushes of his fingers against their hands, to curl his hand behind their heads as he gently bonked their foreheads together, to simply squeeze their shoulders.
And then when he awoke once while in the medbay, late at night, his healing burns aching and itching, there had been someone asleep, head pillowed in their arms on his cot. And then it seemed he rarely woke up alone ever since, with his injuries healing and their bodies scooching ever closer, until they were buried against his side and tucked under his arm, held close and safe within his grasp.
(He slept easier than he ever had before, with someone by his side).
Zoomie was one of his more common guests, the young clone too young to have left Kamino and yet had anyway. At eight, they were in the same range as Threads and Contrary- just a few of the Guard’s precious handful of too-young vod’ike who suffered alongside them. The younger ones were the first to bury themselves against Hacksaw and use him as a warm place to sleep, but it hadn’t taken much time at all before he had guests like Fox and Thorn and even the surly form of the other Alpha-class, Biteback, came crawling under the covers to bundle up against his side.
The corner where his “nest” was set up in was in a quiet part of Headquarters, far away from the hustle and bustle of everyday activities, and while the room itself wasn’t very large, it was rarely lonely. And Hacksaw’s heart was warm as he smoothed his fingers over Zoomie’s hair one last time before tucking his arm around them, careful not to disturb their sleep as he went back to his quiet busywork.
Today was an okay day. He had energy to stay awake and review and sort through reports, but his lungs had a steady wheeze that whispered across his ribs every time he breathed. But he was well enough to work, and so he did, reading through the numerous articles that trickled across the holopad.
His job was self-imposed, unable to sit around without contributing to the Guard in any way he was able to. Sometimes he was proofreading the other Guard medics’ reports- both versions- and making minor corrections that may have slipped in through their fatigue (which in itself was his signal that someone needed sleep and would send them a note that he needed something arbitrary, if only to lure them close enough for him to pull them in and force them to sleep). Sometimes he was doing what he was doing now, reading through the hundreds of medical files that filtered through the GAR servers daily, keeping tabs on battalions and units that had continuous trends of high casualties while putting pins into reports of those whom he knew had batchmates within the Guard.
(There may be a disconnect between the Guard and the GAR, but Hacksaw liked to think they still loved each other, even if relationships were strained. Still cared for each other. Would still mourn if one of them fell. So he kept his eye on the numbers and names that filtered by, anonymously passing along messages of loss or grievous injury across the invisible gap through the backdoors he’s learned and passed through many times during his black-ops days. The same backdoors he used to sneak in the occasional extra crate of supplies- the ones his vod’ike think were sent in mistake and he continued to let them think so, if only the good fortune to keep their hopes afloat for a little while).
A soft knock stirred him from the datapad, a familiar head of pink hair greeting him with a small smile.
“You’re awake,” Mercy commented softly, her eyes roaming over the familiar lump at his side as she approached. She was one of a handful of active-duty medics the Guard had, and worked as much as five medics, always shooing the others away to shoulder their work. Hacksaw worried for her, as the shadows under her eyes were creeping past bruised and into midnight hues, and her cheekbones were starting to sharpen. Still, she smiled again as she knelt down onto the soft carpet beside the beanbag, careful not to disturb Zoomie with her movements. “How are you feeling?”
<Alert,> Hacksaw had to set his datapad down to free his hands to sign properly, keeping his movements small so he wouldn’t accidentally elbow his vod’ika. <Breath easy, but wheezy. You okay?>
“I’m fine,” was her automatic response, absent as she rummaged through her bag. “Things have gotten a little violent down in the Lower Levels again. The Scarlet Fangs and the Waxwoes are butting heads again and some of the patrols got caught in the crossfire.”
Hacksaw reached out to gently squeeze her elbow in comfort. He’s seen some of the reports, and while some of the vode came back injured, there was thankfully nothing serious. There was enough bacta from his last secret misdirect of a supply crate that they were all on their feet within the day from even rationed out bacta, but there was no guarantee that next time would be so lucky. And Mercy knew this too, judging from the shadows under her eyes.
She always cared too much. But so did Hacksaw, in his own quiet way.
Mercy gave him a grateful look, letting his hand linger on her arm for a moment longer before she gently pulled it away. She reached over, brushing his growing curls from his forehead to press her palm against his skin.
“Hm, well you don’t feel feverish,” she murmured, her other hand finally fishing out the scanner. She turned the volume down so the beeping wouldn’t disturb his sleeping charge and sweeping its blinding beam over his body.
“Temperature normal. Now for the pinch.” Mercy flipped a tab on the scanner open, her cool hand gently taking his larger, warmer one in familiar motions as he allowed her to slide a finger into it. The scarring on his fingers prevented him from feeling the sharp prick of the blood sample beyond a dull tickle. He allowed her to guide his hand and scanner to his lap as it processed as she pulled out the stethoscope and plucking it over her neck.
The quilts were peeled back carefully, enough to expose the bottom hem of his sweater and to not jostle Zoomie. His free hand pulled it up almost his collarbone, exposing the swaths of scars across his chest. Mercy’s hands were always cool against his skin, but gentle as they felt along his ribs and tickled across his abdomen, feeling for any swelling before the icy chill of the metal stethoscope was pressed against his chest.
“Deep breath,” Mercy commanded, and he dutifully sucked in a deep, rasping breath. Some days he couldn’t do so without ending up curling up coughing, but thankfully today there was nothing but a slight rattle low against his ribs. They repeated the process a few more times, on different sections of his chest and along his sides, her dark brows pinched and bright pink braid slowly losing its battle with gravity as it crept further and further down over her shoulder.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re congested or there’s fluid buildup.” She swept her braid back over her shoulder, helping Hacksaw tuck the blankets back around him once he pulled his sweater back down. She then allowed him to pull his finger out of the scanner, soaking a little antiseptic onto a cotton swab and dabbing at the pinprick on the pad before swilling more into the opening of the scanner as a preemptive measure before she could take it back up to the medbay for proper disinfection.
“No infection, but your sugar levels are a little low, though. When’s the last time you ate?”
Hacksaw had to think for a moment. Prim had come in around 04:00 and had slipped out a takeout box from under his chestplate that had a small portion of some sort of noodle and vegetable dish. He hadn’t said where he’d gotten it from, and Hacksaw didn’t ask, merely squeezed between the gaps of his kneeplate in silent thanks. At 13:00 was when Zoomie came crawling under the covers, only he made sure to give them a ration bar before they went to sleep, and had taken note it had been his last one of his stash. He hadn’t had the chance to ask anyone to bring him more.
Mercy sighed when he explained this to her, closing her eyes briefly.
“I’ll have someone come down with more,” she told him, before glancing over at his water bottle just within reach. “You’re staying hydrated, at least?”
In response, he picked up his bottle, letting the liquid slosh around to show how much he’d drank since that morning before dutifully passing it over into her awaiting hand.
“I think it may just be a humidity spike affecting your asthma,” she explained as she tucked the scanner away and rose to fill up the bottle from a nearby tap routed to one of the far walls. “If you’re feeling as if it’s manageable, I don’t make you take your inhaler, but I’d think it’d be best in case your asthma acts up even further.”
Hacksaw quietly accepted back his bottle as he mulled over his choices. Logically it’d be best to prevent his condition worsening just in case, but the inhalers he used weren’t easy to source. They couldn’t be filled up as easily as his oxygen bottles, and oftentimes put his braver vode close to dangerous positions as they had to rummage through the clinics and hospitals’ trash for expired or near-expired samples.
So he shook his head, gently drubbing his knuckles against the metal shell of his oxygen tank with a hollow resonance. He’ll just remain on his oxygen for now instead of risking taking out the cannula as he typically did when he was feeling well enough but moving around.
“Alright,” Mercy agreed, kneeling back down again to put a hand on his arm. “Someone will be down with food and extra ration bars. Please call if you need anything, okay?”
<Please eat and get some sleep too,> he signed back with a soft, concerned look. <You need to take care of yourself as well.>
Mercy sighed once more, giving his arm a pat before picking up her bag.
“I will,” she said, and grimanced as she was pinned with an unimpressed stare. “I will try to, Hacksaw. I promise.”
That was perhaps the best he was going to get, he decided, giving her another nod before settling back into the comfort of his quilts, her footfalls disappearing towards the doorway.
“Wh’ w’s th’?” Zoomie mumbled sleepily from his side, their hand uncurling from his sweater to rub at their eye.
Hacksaw merely combed his fingers through their hair again, down their neck and across their shoulder before returning back to their hair for another round. It soothed them back down against his side, shuffling until their nose was tucked against the crook of his neck and sighing deeply before falling still once more as sleep tugged them back under. He turned his head just enough to press his lips against their curls, a hand moving back to wake up his datapad and resume work.
He may not be as capable as he once was before his injuries, but nothing would stop him from loving and caring for his vode.