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The clatter of a bottle being slammed down right in front of his breakfast tray makes Ponds twitch hard, startles him right out of his pre-caf daze and into full alertness all at once. He jerks back, one hand snapping down to his blaster, the other lashing out to grab—
A vambrace. A blue and white vambrace, thoroughly battered, not something Ponds has ever seen from this close up but still something that he knows.
Alpha-17 gives him a deeply unimpressed look, though his dark eyes slide down to where Ponds is gripping his blaster before he pauses. Something almost like approval flickers across his scarred face, and he grunts, shakes Ponds’s hand off his armor, and shoves the nutrient shake closer.
“Drink it,” he orders, flat, then turns and stalks away across the mess hall, pulling his bucket on as he goes.
Entirely bewildered, Ponds blinks after him, turns his confused stare on the bottle—not standard, but something that’s usually handed out to command-class clones to help them build more muscle—and then raises his baffled gaze to where Neyo is sitting across the table.
It’s little comfort that Neyo looks just as bewildered as Ponds feels.
“Is it…poisoned?” Ponds asks after a second, carefully picking the bottle up. It’s still sealed, but—Ponds is absolutely sure that Alpha-17 could poison it without leaving any clues. And if he didn’t…
If he didn’t, that was him being nice, and makes Ponds entirely sure that Alpha-17 must have been poisoned instead.
Neyo doesn’t seem all that more certain about what Alpha-17’s motives could be. Ponds has only been a commander for a few weeks, hardly got to know Neyo at all before that, but he’s had enough exposure to be able to read the true bafflement on his face. “It could be some kind of test,” he offers after a second, wary, and Ponds pulls a face and carefully puts the bottle back down.
“Maybe I should ask the general,” Ponds says, halfhearted. He really doesn’t want to drag General Windu into petty things, though; he’s already been incredibly patient and kind about Ponds’s promotion, far above what rank a simple CT should be able to make. Ponds was never supposed to be a commander, was never supposed to have command of more than a small squad, but the leadership of Lightning Squadron getting wiped out—and his own attempts to rally them in the aftermath—earned him the extra bars, and he’s trying not to lean too much on the Jedi in response.
Neyo snorts. “He’ll be very concerned if he thinks the other commanders are bullying you,” he says, dry, and Ponds pulls a face, even if it does make something a little soft and squishy turn over in his chest. He’s more than capable of dealing with a bit of lighthearted hazing, and looking like he’s going running to the general over some cheerful teasing won't earn him any friends.
Assuming this is cheerful teasing, and not Alpha-17 trying to—to cleanse the command ranks of regs or something.
Still. Still. Ponds takes a breath, then reaches for the drink again, cracks the seal, pretends that the way Neyo's brows arch towards his hairline doesn’t make something in his stomach sink.
“You're drinking it?” Neyo asks, and from that tone he’s judging Ponds’s sense of self-preservation deeply.
“It was an order from a senior commander,” Ponds says with a tip of one shoulder, then offers Neyo a grin. “Besides, I always wanted to know if these things actually helped.”
He downs it, and—it’s probably not poisoned, given that it just tastes like chocolate. There's no way Alpha-17 could know it’s Ponds’s favorite flavor, but he appreciates it nevertheless.
Ponds likes the gym when it’s quiet, and that’s a good enough reason to get up early, even if he’s generally one to sleep in when he can. The Negotiator has a nicer gym than the one he’s used to, though he’s not sure if that’s just because it’s meant for officers or specific to the 212th, and it’s empty when he lets himself in, the lights left low. Ponds doesn’t bother turning them up, just runs through his warmup stretches, does his time on the treadmill, and then settles in with one of the machines to work on his legs.
Cody wanders in when he’s about halfway through his reps, though he doesn’t pause to talk, just waves. Ponds waves back, feeling a wash of self-directed amusement at how starstruck he still feels just being around the command class, accepted as one of them. They’ve been remarkably welcoming, even if Ponds is the first reg to make commander, but it’s hard to get over how strange it feels to not immediately snap to attention when people like Cody or Neyo so much as glance past him.
And then, just as Ponds is about to start his last set, a shadow falls over him.
Ponds’s eyes snap open, and he grabs for one of the dumbbells by the machine, then freezes. Alpha-17 is looming over him, staring down with a deep scowl. Possibly because Ponds was just about to try and brain him with a weight, but—
“Morning, sir?” Ponds tries. “Did you want the machine?”
Alpha-17’s eyebrows furrow, like he can't comprehend why Ponds would think a clone like him would need to use the leg press. “You skipped breakfast to work out?” he demands.
Ponds blinks, then carefully slides out of the press, rises to his feet, because if he’s going to get yelled at for something, he’d rather Alpha-17 does it to his face. Well. Closer to his face. Ponds barely comes up to Alpha-17’s tits, so unless he bends down, they’re not going to be face to face for anything. “I grabbed a protein bar when I woke up,” he says, as mild as he can make it. “I might just be a reg—”
Alpha-17 snorts. “You're a commander,” he interrupts, and slaps another nutrition shake into Ponds’s chest. “Karking act like it. All those enhancement shots the Kaminoans are giving you will wreck your damn body if you don’t eat.”
Absolutely baffled, Ponds catches the bottle before it can drop. “Enhancement shots?” he asks. “I'm not getting anything like that.”
Alpha-17 pauses, mouth closing, scowl deepening. “You're not,” he echoes, suspicious. His gauntlet creaks, and Ponds wonders suddenly if he’s about to get punched. He’d like to know why, if that’s what is happening here. Ponds hadn’t thought he’d upset anyone, but—clearly Alpha-17’s feeling some way about the addition of a reg to the command class he helped train.
“It was just a promotion,” Ponds says, and casts what hopefully isn't a pleading glance at Cody, who’s not acknowledging them so hard that he might as well just wear a sign that says he’s eavesdropping. “My rank was the only thing they changed.”
“They what?” Alpha-17 demands, too loud, and then snaps his mouth shut, turns on his heel, and stalks out the gym, radiating an indignation so strong it could knock down doors.
Ponds blinks after him, then glances over at Cody again, who’s stopped pretending he wasn’t listening in. He shrugs at Ponds philosophically, and Ponds pulls a face and rubs a hand over his shaved skull, then glances down at the shake.
Chocolate again. He’d thought the mess was completely out of this flavor, but—maybe Alpha-17 just knows where they keep a stash of them.
He writes it off, some kind of misunderstanding he can't fully see all the pieces of, makes himself keep moving, and tells himself that it’s fine and won't happen again. Just a one-off. Alpha-17 was just confused.
But the next morning, Alpha-17 turns up just as Ponds is setting up the weights, stalks in, and without a single word drops another shake on Ponds’s towel, then sets himself up to play spotter without so much as asking for permission. He’s a good spotter, especially given that he could probably break Ponds in two just by sneezing, but—
It’s a little weird. Ponds is willing to admit that. Alpha-17 isn't exactly famous for being personable or supportive. He and Ponds only have one real thing in common, and—well. It’s probably not something Alpha-17 wants to be reminded of all that often. So there's no reason for him to be hovering, unless he thinks Ponds is going to make a mistake and needs to be watched so he doesn’t.
Except that Alpha-17 keeps coming back, every morning like clockwork, and even when Ponds doesn’t have time to hit the gym, Alpha-17 turns up like a grouchy phantom rattling bottles of nutrient shake instead of chains, and there’s no way to escape him.
Ponds is maybe starting to feel a little hunted.
Neyo casts him a long, tolerant look when Ponds skulks into his temporary office, trying very hard not to keep looking over his shoulder. At this point, he’s going to develop a twitch. Or maybe just a crick in his neck.
“Again?” Neyo asks, flipping through forms on his pad. “Don’t worry, we’ll only be onboard the Negotiator for another two weeks.”
“Only,” Ponds groans, and sinks down in the free chair. The droid Neyo is friends with is recharging in the corner, and Ponds catches himself eyeing the gap between the charging port and the wall, trying to judge if he’ll be able to stuff himself into the space. With a sigh, he slumps forward, rubbing at his eyes, and says, half-muffled, “I think this is harassment.”
Neyo snorts, snapping his pad closed. “There’s a betting pool over whether 17 got replaced by a pod person,” he says, dry. “Not one single person has bet that he hasn’t.”
That’s about how Ponds is feeling. “Is it because I'm a reg and he thinks I can't cut it?” he asks. It’s not whining. Whining won't solve anything, and it won't impress Neyo, either. Though at this point, Ponds can't imagine anyone would blame him for a bit of whining. Alpha-17 hasn’t stopped following him. It’s been a week and a half, and Ponds can't walk down a single hallway without getting jumpscared by a Alpha-17 looming out of the shadows at him, making sure he’s eating properly or warm enough or something.
Ponds is a soldier. He’s always been a soldier. He survived when most of Lightning Squadron got devastated, and he dragged himself up, kept fighting, made sure the rest of his men made it out before he finally collapsed. He survived, and that’s more than most people can say, facing what he did. If Alpha-17 thinks he isn't capable just because he didn’t come off the right assembly line—
“Get out,” a gruff voice says, and Ponds twitches automatically, raises his head with a sinking feeling—
But Alpha-17 isn't looking at him. He has a narrow stare fixed on Neyo, who rolls his eyes but rises to his feet, taking his pad with him. “Don’t break my office,” he tells Alpha-17, ignores Ponds desperate, silent plea for rescue, and leaves, waving the door shut behind him.
Great, Ponds thinks with a grimace, rubbing a hand over his eyes. The last thing he wants is confirmation of what Alpha-17 thinks of him—
“You really stupid enough to think that?” Alpha-17 asks, flat. There's a creak of kama as he stalks across the small room, but Ponds can't quite bring himself to look up, to face whatever look Alpha-17 is wearing.
“I think I'm a regular trooper, and you put a lot of effort into training the commanders,” Ponds says after a second. Steels himself, because he’s not a coward, and raises his head, meeting Alpha-17’s dark eyes. “And…our commander in Lightning died pretty damn quickly.”
“But you didn’t,” Alpha-17 says, still flat, and it prickles down Ponds’s spine. He’s always admired Alpha-17. Out of all the Alpha class, he’s the one that the Kaminoans thought was too valuable to put back in cryo, that the GAR tapped for some of the most dangerous missions of the war. He’s a model of loyalty without obsequiousness, devotion to duty at any cost. Ponds always thought that he was incredible. If Alpha-17 blames him for surviving—
“No,” he says, and gets to his feet, facing Alpha-17 squarely. “I got as many men as I could back to camp. I earned my rank, Commander.”
There's a long, long second of silence, and then Alpha-17 snorts. A finger slides under the neck of Ponds’s blacks, dragging the closure open, pulling the fabric apart, and Ponds raises his chin as the wide, white line of the lightsaber scar comes clear. He could have asked for more time in the bacta tank to get rid of it, but—
The scar means he survived. Ponds is proud of it, regardless of what else happened that day.
“Karking Ventress,” Alpha-17 says, gruff,, and glances up, holding Ponds’s gaze. Steps in, once and then again, and Ponds jolts as he’s crowded up against the desk, pushed back against the plastoid with a firm shove. His heart is racing, and his breath catches as Alpha-17’s hands catch his hips, as Alpha-17 leans in—
A kiss, hard enough that Alpha-17’s teeth catch Ponds’s lip, deep enough to drag a startled moan up out of Ponds’s throat as he grabs for Alpha-17’s bandolier, hangs on as his head spins. Alpha-17’s tongue is in his mouth and his arm is around Ponds’s back and he’s kissing Ponds like Ponds is something—not breakable, not fragile, but vital. Something he can't stop touching, can't pull his hands away from, can't stop looking at, and it’s heady, a rush like adrenaline through Ponds’s veins as he kisses back, pushes up, drags Alpha-17 closer, tries to get more.
“Kriff,” Alpha-17 says, winded, and catches Ponds’s arm, pulls him towards the door. “My bunk. Now.”
A shiver runs down Ponds’s spine, and he tries without success to catch his breath. “I—17?”
“Nobody gave you the reward you should get for surviving that bitch,” Alpha-17 says, like it’s a threat, like his hand isn't curled tight around Ponds’s wrist, thumb pressed right up against his racing pulse. “Not just a promotion. I saw that holo of you putting Ventress on her ass. Somebody should make you see stars for that.”
Oh, Ponds thinks, and swallows, a bright frisson of excitement sliding across his nerves. That means—
“You couldn’t just ask? Or maybe make me a card?” he asks, amusement shaking through him, and Alpha-17 scoffs, turns, and shoves him up against the wall to kiss him again.
Ponds is going to take that as a no.