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There is a new medic on Kamino, and Alpha-17 does not trust her. He watches, weight purposefully distributed on both legs, hovering over CC-1010’s back, watching, how she deals with it quickly, quietly, efficiently— and he can appreciate that.
What he can’t appreciate is her gentleness.
She’s a prisoner, a magnetized, Force-suppressing electro-cuff on either hand, and yet she still smiles and kisses the skin-colored bandage where Fox lost his index finger, got it reattached, and wrapped to keep the stitches together. “There you go,” she murmurs just to the kid. “Now you’ll get better faster.”
“T-thank you, sir— I mean, ma'am.” Fox has ears that are redder than the Abregado sun, the general eyes of someone extremely flustered, and Alpha-17 sighs to himself.
“In case you didn’t know, medic, using the bacta is a waste of resources,” he drawls. “And kissing his little boo-boos better is a waste of time.”
Fox, the unrepentant little shit, whips his head and stares at Alpha like he’s cockblocking the kid or something, and the medic, pink hair and all, pulls herself up to her full height from her feet—which really isn’t that tall—and smiles in that mildly-ominous way that only medics can achieve.
“If you’re jealous, I can kiss your boo-boos bye-bye too,” she says shamelessly, and Alpha ignores the flicker of appreciation at her audacity. “And that’s doctor to you, 17.”
“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Fox says earnestly. “Alpha likes to kick things that get too close to his legs.”
“I’m going to kick you through a wall,” he states, bland. No respect at all, he thinks part-mournfully. What happened to the chain of command?
Fox just blinks, unimpressed. “Of course, Alpha. I’m sure you and your sprained ankle can get me through a wall.”
“You have a what?” Green eyes bore into his skull, and he curses out his snitch of a cadet. Command class, his shebs, he's going to put that impertinent brat right into scrubbing ‘freshers with a toothbrush for the rest of his life.
He blinks boredly. “A sprained ankle.”
“Get on the bed.” It's a sharp order, sending a jolt straight down to his cock because that is the tone of someone far too used to her orders being followed and he's into that apparently. There's something else about her too, that mysteriousness where she doesn't reveal her name, or the fact that she has Force-suppressors on her, or the fact that she's all too happy to help when she's a prisoner on the facility.
“No,” he says.
The ankle doesn't hinder his capabilities, which doesn't matter anyway, because all he's doing is training a bunch of kids to go fight in a war that hasn't even started. He doesn't even get to spar with Prime anymore because of that new instructor attempting to seduce his genetic template. It should be a violation to let that happen in front of the cadets, but they have to learn about sex at some point, he figures. Best to traumatize them along the way so no more Jango Fett minis run around the galaxy.
“Get on the bed,” she says again, firmer. “CC-1010, you can be off. Just be careful with your hand for a little bit, and come back here tomorrow so I can check the healing process.”
Alpha scowls. “CC-1010, stay.” But both the doctor and the kid are shitheads who never listen, and Fox just ducks around him, kicking his injured ankle lightly to throw him off balance when Alpha sweeps a hand to nab the kid, and runs out the room.
He's going to put that kid into the ground, he swears.
“Bed, Alpha.” She isn't even looking at him, back blatantly turned as she types something on her datapad.
“I like to wait for the fourth date before I put out,” he drawls, stepping closer.
He gets an impressive side-eye for his efforts. “Either you get on the bed, or I put you on there.” There's a certainty to her, chin at a fierce angle, cinder in her scorching green eyes, the type of something that sets fire to something deep in Alpha’s gut, stoking his— something.
The bed is right there, to Alpha’s left, the edge on which Fox was perched on moments ago, but the medic—the doctor whose back is turned to the killer in the room so casually—is far more interesting.
He leans in a little, just barely in her space. “And how exactly are you going to do that?”
He watches as she, cool as a sniper, puts her datapad down on the side-table and turns to face him. “Last chance,” she warns with her arms crossed. “As your doctor, I’m advising you to get on the bed.”
“I’ll pass, doctor.” The word is barely out of his mouth before the world blurs beneath him, upending him, knocking feet out from under him, balance thrown, spinning, a weight colliding with his chest-
Alpha is winded, angry, strewn across the short edge of the medical cot, fire-eyed doctor on his lap, breasts pressed against his tits and pinning him in place, and his cock is very interested in this situation. Kriffing kark.
There’s a smugness to her, unfettered even in the face of his snarl, and she sits up, and Alpha’s hands are on her hips, ready to—well, he’d be lying if he said to throw her off.
“This what they teach you in Jedi school?” He breathes out roughly, palms flexing on her hips.
She scoffs, rolling off his body and vaulting over the bed’s railing in one fell swoop, and he lets her go. “Not every Force-user is a Jedi, for kriff’s sake.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, dry. He sits up after a long beat of pulling his shit together, forcing the warmth of her lithe body, strong hands, sharp, flaying eyes, every distracting thing about her away.
“I’ll be running some scans.” The cool professionalism is in place again, fight tucked right back into the fold of her compartmentalization, and Alpha wonders whether she’d be like that in bed too, or whether that bite would make an appearance again, or whether it will be something else completely that’ll greet him.
Well, not him, he amends. That’s a terrible idea. But someone. If it’s any of the Alpha Batch, he’s pitching a fit and burning the whole facility to the ground, though—
“May I remove your boot?” She asks, painfully polite.
He leers. “You can remove any piece of clothing you want, doctor.” He purrs the word like a damn tooka, and grins wider when her face shutters into annoyance.
“I'll remove your kriffing balls-” she bites off, taking a deliberate breath in and out, and then, just kneels. Tugs off the boot with surprising gentleness, brisk, radiating discontent, and scans his ankle. “No breaks,” she tells him after a second. “No rips in the muscle either.”
“Just a sprain?” He asks, more of an I-told-you-so than a genuine question, and she glares at him.
“It’s my duty to check,” she says, stiff, all that irritation rolled up into some weird type of kindness and her wiry muscles he didn't see so much as he felt. “I’ll give you some bacta.”
She gets to her feet, clothes rustling, and he scoffs. “Don’t bother wasting any.” He rolls his ankle, holding back the wince when it twinges. “It’ll be healed by tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She enunciates every word like Alpha doesn’t understand. “You’re my patient, and I will ease your pain in whatever way is possible.”
“It’s a sprained ankle,” he deadpans.
“It’s your sprained ankle,” she corrects, and the room is too small, too tight and wound, and the doctor is too fekking pretty and scary for this, “and you suffer enough on a daily basis.” Shuddering, she turns away, stalking off to the side, past the curtain, but her voice still drifts back to him. “If I had to teach a bunch of teenagers—regardless of how sweet they are—I’d burn this whole kriffing facility down to the ground.”
Seems that sentiment is universal, he thinks wryly. Fekking Kamino. At least the kids aren't that horrible.
He hides his slight smile at the thought of the CC batch. “They’re my duty.” They’re so much more than that, but he wouldn’t expect a karking natborn to understand that.
The look on her face is helplessly fond as she walks to him, small tub of bacta in hand. It's not directed at him, but more like she’s remembering something, a burrowing, sweet, nostalgic thing. “Idiots,” she mutters. “I’m far too aware.” She turns her arresting attention on him. “Foot up on the bed.”
“Or what?” He challenges because he hasn’t learnt his lesson, apparently, like some of the di'kuts he teaches. “You’re gonna make me?”
She smiles, sugarily sweet. “Oh, I will. And don't worry, I'll kiss your boo-boo bye-bye too.” It's a little mean, a little mocking, and Alpha is absolutely taking that as flirting.
He grins, all teeth. “Oh, we’ll see,” he says, and tries not to feel the lurch in his lower belly at the look in her eyes.