Chapter Text
In the three weeks since being reassigned, I’d barely managed to get updated heights and weights of the five misfits of Clone Force 99. Hunter relented at my constant pestering, but his body language clearly illustrated how he felt about the two minutes I’d robbed from him. Tech gave me the information immediately, readily showing his annoyance at my insistence to take the measurements myself, and the expression on his face when his numbers matched exactly still made me scowl just thinking about it. Sweet Wrecker was willing enough after my assurance that there wouldn’t be any procedures or need for injections, and Echo, at least, was apologetic during his blatant attempts at evasion. It didn’t take long to realize the depths of his fear, and, when I brought the simple equipment to him, away from the glaring lights of the medbay, he agreed with just the briefest hint of gratitude. That damn sniper, however… only after threatening to pull him from duty did he stand still long enough for me to quickly note my findings.
They’d all claimed to be miraculously unharmed after their first mission with me - then feigned perfect ignorance to the sudden disappearance of a full container of bacta gel and a splint. Assholes. They could have simply denied the transfer – made life easier on all of us, but that mission was also Echo’s first after coming back from the dead, so Tech stated that having a trained medic aboard might prove useful. Like hell… All my presence had brought since I stepped onto that ramp was stress. Echo, at least, occasionally made an attempt at polite conversation, though the undercurrent of innate discomfort was clear in the jittery flutter of his fingers and the way his eyes darted toward the door. Each moment of careful silence that followed me like a plague as soon as I entered a room left me more and more alienated, and I was sick of it.
Teeth grinding, I drew a breath, nearly a month’s worth of repressed frustration burning atop my tongue, but then something forced me still. It was such a small thing – a simple, tense roll of Echo’s shoulder, the slightest cringe of pain and flash of annoyance as his other arm tensed, scomp just beginning to shift before settling back against his thigh, and I could nearly hear the click of his teeth grinding. This. This was something I could fix.
Without a word, I stood and made my way back to the cramped storage room. Though I had few doubts Hunter could her me shifting boxes around, he seemed all too happy that I’d distracted myself with something other than pestering them.
“Echo?” I called after several minutes, “Could you help me for a sec? I can’t reach this damn bag.” There was a moment of stillness, and I was certain he’d turned to the others in a silent plea, but he’d been the only one to show even a façade of friendliness, so they were surely too happy to find me asking for his help instead of theirs.
“Y-yeah, sure.” He finally answered, and, even from across the ship, I could hear the resignation in his sigh before slow footsteps approached me. His brows pulled together at the sight of rearranged crates, and even let out a small chuckle at realizing I’d tried to craft some semblance of stairs.
“Yeah, yeah; laugh it up.” I retorted, earning the first genuine smile I’d seen in weeks, and the guilt it shot through my chest threatened to cripple me. But this was important. I could help him. I just had to prove that.
“The green one?” He asked, stepping toward the cargo racks.
“That’s the one.” I sighed, arms folding almost petulantly across my chest. I saw the way his jaw tensed as he stepped forward, but held myself back; waiting. His fingers barely brushed the material before a spasm tore through his shoulder, wrenching a barely audible grunt from his lips.
“I knew it,” I muttered, and, before he could recover, pointed to one of the crates. “Sit.” The order was gentle, but an order nonetheless.
“Look, Doc, I’m fine, I don’t”
“Do you know what I did before this?” I asked, words quiet enough that he had to silence himself to hear them. Teeth burring into his cheek, he shook his head, brows furrowed beneath frustration, fear, and a betrayal I desperately hoped he’d forgive me for. “I was a physical therapist – I specialized in sports rehab. My guess would be that Captain Rex found out, and that’s why he pulled me from my troop – you are why he pulled me from my troop.” It was a dirty play, but I watched the guilt steal over him, breaking his resolve. Gentler, I continued.
“Echo, I left my old life behind because I can help – I want to help.” He wouldn’t look at me as I spoke, hard eyes burring into the ground just past the tip of his scomp. “I’m not going to record this – no machines or medication, just… just give me your hand… please.” Several seconds passed in silence, and I could feel the heat of his glare shift to my waiting palm. Finally, his throat bobbed, swallowing back some of that stiffness, and, without a word, eyes still downturned, he held his hand toward me.
I could have sobbed, movements slow, deliberate. I didn’t press for conversation as I slowly worked my thumbs into the callused skin of his palm, carefully working over the tendons and gently manipulating the joints. I could feel the depth of tension coiled in his every muscle, and, gradually, I felt it begin to ease, watched his eyes follow my movements with something so near fascination before melting away into relief.
“Can I take off your vambrace?” I barely breathed the request, terrified that merely speaking would remind him that he wasn’t supposed to allow this, that he was afraid of me and everything that red symbol on my shoulder represented, but his eyes flicked up to mind, and something seemed to shift. I don’t know what he saw, but there was a stillness in his gaze as he nodded, and I didn’t shy from letting the depth of my gratitude show.
Falling back into that silence, I slid the armor from his forearm and continued the slow, rhythmic movements along taut, abused muscle, occasionally stealing mere glances at him for any sign of pain or trepidation, but, even as I began to pull at his rerebrace, he merely shifted to help me. Though his shoulder was my main goal, the utter relief stealing over him as I worked over his bicep in long, leisurely movements before starting on his tricep was all the encouragement I needed not to rush this. His eyes slid closed, head falling forward slightly.
“Sit down.” This time, it wasn’t a command. Hand tenderly guiding him back, I eased him down onto a crate. He barely registered the movement. Finally, I detached the shoulder bell. He flinched slightly as the heel of my palm swept over his deltoid, and I quickly softened my touch. He started to say something, to excuse the moment of hitched breath and tense muscles as anything other than what it was, but, caught in the quiet of my own movements, let himself fade into my touch once more.
When I reached for his backplate, however, that trepidation returned in force.
“Um, there’s… my back is…” He stammered, torn between staying and fleeing.
“I know.” I whispered, hand moving back to his shoulder while the other rested against the plate of armor. “The nodules lie between your muscles. They broke the fascia, so the tissues can’t lubricate themselves normally. It’s no wonder you’re so tight. Fluids, cellular wastes – it can’t get flushed out properly.” My thumb swept soothingly against him. “I can help with that Echo.” I promised gently. When he didn’t respond, my movements stilled, voice going even quieter.
“Do you want me to stop?” The way he tensed… it was so near to trembling, I found myself straining not to pull him against me as though something as simple as an embrace might ease his misery, but, eyes pointedly shut, he shook his head. The breath escaped me in something too close to a sob, and I quietly pulled the heavy plate of armor away.
Every ounce of tension I’d so carefully worked from him returned in an instant. I said nothing as my hand dragged down the knot of muscle sweeping up his shoulder to his neck, movements slipping effortless around the node of metal near his spine as though I’d worked around them all my life. And his chest hitched. I felt my own tears threatening to claw their way up my throat, but forced every ounce of concentration into holding them back, to easing the flood of panic and fear and pain from the man losing himself beneath my touch.
Neither of us spoke as I slowly made my way along his shoulders, spending a short eternity on his neck before starting down. Neither drew attention to his occasional shudder or the tears dripping from his chin, but I found myself realization something that brought him far more pain than a strained muscle: in the months since his rescue, he’d been so adverse to physical contact, terrified at the mere thought of a stranger’s touch, and now he’d found himself surrounded by nothing but strangers. How long had it been since he’d felt more than the fleeting touch of a pat on the back or brief grasp to help him to his feet? I knew his brothers were gone, and he’d known the others members of 99 scarcely longer than me. Trapped in a body he surely loathed and surrounded by people he hadn’t yet begun to trust…
My every movement suddenly felt weighted beneath a desperate need to justify this sliver of trust he’d granted me, beneath the need to offer him this glimpse of comfort when no one else could. I didn’t doubt that the others had long since noted our absence, and would have to thank Hunter, I was sure, for keeping his brothers’ doubtlessly creative taunts at bay.
Echo kept his gaze carefully trained on the far corner of the floor as I moved around him to remove his chestplate. I didn’t try to meet his gaze, focus pointedly locked on the movements of my own hands. Not wanting him to have to brace against my ministrations, I settled onto a knee behind him before continuing.
“I want you to lean back against me. Okay?” I said softly without allowing even a moment’s pause as I kneaded into the sweeping muscle of his chest. He hesitated for barely a heartbeat before letting my touch naturally ease him against me. Again, that tension returned, but this time it was quicker to leave, and he melted against me. Until he was ready, this was as close to an embrace as I could offer, and I didn’t doubt that he knew just as well as I did that the massage had become an excuse to give him what he really needed: touch. Simple and gentle and nothing at all while somehow being everything all at once.
So I let my hands work over him long after my own muscles began to ache, occasionally returning to a troublesome spot on his back or sweeping down his upper arms for the simple desire to draw out that sensation of touch until, finally, we both let out a slow breath. Still, we lingered in that quiet, hands resting softly atop his shoulders as reality slowly came back into existence around us.
“…I…” The fractured word caught in his throat, and my hands automatically moved down his arms once more.
“At least once a week, you’re going to let me repeat this. Understand?” I said it in the practiced expectation of a medical professional, shocking him enough to finally pull his gaze back to mine; to see the plea and gratitude burning through me, and he instantly quieted once more beneath a sudden understanding. “If something flares up before then, you come and tell me. Make me hunt you down like this again, and I will pull rank.” His shoulders slumped, body deflating in a flood of relief at the realization of what I was offering. This is not something he needed to suffer through alone.
His eyes closed as he nodded. With a final sweep of my hands over his shoulders, I finally pushed away from him and absently helped him slip back into his armor.
“One last thing.” I called just as he’d started for the door. The openness in his gaze as he turned back toward me made my heart soar – finally void of the fear and annoyance and frustration. “It was just a trick to get you in here, but I legitimately threw my bag back too far for me to reach.” The words seemed to linger in the air between us for a short eternity as his mind struggled to focus enough to process what I’d just said before laughter burst from his lips, body pitching forward beneath the force of it. Lips bunching against what I wasn’t sure to be a smile or sneer, I merely stared at him expectantly, but the brilliant smile he flashed me when he finally collected himself enough to retrieve the bag was well worth every grueling second.