Chapter Text
Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.
-Winnie the Pooh
Curls of steam, dipping and twirling into the air, floated up from the broth, a glossy golden color interspersed with the deep green of herbs and black pepper floating to the surface. Neatly cut chicken cubes and thin grains of brown rice rested at the bottom, nestled against the steel bowl. He wished he could’ve named the different kinds of herbs and seasonings that ambled along in the wind of passerby, put a name to the curling edges of their leaves, but all he knew was that it was good.
Too hot. He blew away the lithe smoke, fanning a hand over the soup gently. His spoon was just small enough to cool the broth with but a moment’s wait. The chatter around him was like a blanket, setting over the mess hall and trickling out to a dim murmur in the surrounding rooms. Laughter rose above the noise, cutting through like a knife, multiple voices joining into one unintelligible tease as a group thumped a new clone on the back- a shiny, fresh from training, red in the face and grinning bashfully at the cheers.
He allowed himself a moment to soak in the jubilation, the deeper voices of the more experienced brothers, the clinking of utensils and the dulled steps of metal-lined boots on the linoleum. A brother nearby broke his train of thought as he set down his tray, broth spilling over the side and splashing onto the table.
“Snapper!” He declared, a wide smile on his face meeting the frown on his brothers. “Food’s good today.”
“Yeah, you’d say that, Soup,” There was an eyeroll in his voice as well as on his face, prompting nothing but an amused smirk from Soup. “Your taste buds are faulty.”
“If the Seppies killed me only for bad taste, well...” He paused. “Well, I’d be immortal, ‘cause this is a masterpiece of the culinary arts.”
Snapper grunted dully before beginning to work through a particularly large bite of chicken and rice, unwilling to concede the point. It was still steaming. It was good.
It was quieter at their table than at others, even as a few brothers sat and chatted amongst themselves. He was too enamored with his meal, Snapper watching on with a furrow in his brows and sipping at his drink. He knew from experience that it tasted how he imagined Play-Doh might, if he had ever had the chance to eat it. Such was the nature of anything that claimed to have been “Packed with Protein! 20 Grams Per Scoop!” and mass-made specifically for the clone’s dietary needs.
Slurping the last bit into his mouth from the bowl, he set it down with a satisfied smile. “Wow. I bet there’s another clone named Soup, solely for how…how, uh…awe-inspiring this is. Delectable, even. I bet the strictest, meanest nat-born would be struck with a change of heart had they tried this,” he gushed, tipping backwards.
“Yeah, well, they have a different cook.” Snapper quipped, still pushing around his meal.
“Sure,” Soup conceded. "How was training for you today?"
Impatient and curious, he continued, "Worked with the Commander, right? Was he scary? Did he talk about the General? Ooh, wait, did you see him?” He leaned forward, rapt with attention despite the lack of response.
While they were not the newest batch of shinies, the Moonlight Squadron had yet to see battle, focusing on training and preparing their weapons for war. There was a tension in the air, the anticipation of something big, and the mess buzzed all the more for it. Noticeably, their Commander and General were scarce, resources spread thin as the weeks behind them dripped into months of blood boiling up from bullet wounds, needles filled with stims keeping soldiers too-awake, hearts beating fast knowing everything they did was numbered.
There were simply too many names inside his armor-three inside his helmet and one engraved on his chest plate, right over his heart. (Lightning, on the very top of his helmet. Walker, next to his com. Hotshot, nestled against the top of his neck. The one on his heart was Mouse. There was a messy arrow through the broken letters.)
With all the names and the surplus of weapons and the tales of battles from mere months ago, that Commander Cody and the General were still standing and still fighting for their brothers made them figures of admirability. Of bravery and trust.
But to meet them and to talk to either was- well, a rarity. Their company was often deferred to the Ghost Squadron, if not spent doing paperwork or reviewing battle plans.
“Yeah, I saw Commander Cody,” Snapper grumbled. “Wish I didn’t. He pushes harder than any nat-born.”
“Well, he’s lived this long. Which is pretty cool. I’ll take that advice,” Soup considered. “Think he’ll be there tomorrow? I’m going down to the salles to watch the General.”
“Ppft…of course he will. He pines,” Snapper snickered. “It’s entertaining.”
Soup gasped, affronted, clutching a hand to his heart and doubling over. “I think it’s cute!” He accused, sitting up and shaking his finger at Snapper.
The tales of Commander Cody and the General were…numerous. Not entirely reliable, depending on who you ask, but there were certainly enough of them to have some root in reality.
Soup was a true romantic, something the Kaminoans couldn’t have beat out of him, and he was a sucker for the whole doomed-love thing that Commander Cody seemed to have going on.
Snapper rolled his eyes.
“Y’know that they’re going to get stuck like that,” Soup stated.
“No, that’s what they tell little tubies.”
“Is not. I swear I’ve seen it happen,” Soup retorted, throwing a piece of bread at the other.
“You’re special,” Snapper stated.
The clatter of plates signaled the unofficial end of mess. Once night fell, the only schedule that the clones had was reserved to the medics, those with night watch, and other such special assignments. It was ingrained in them to sleep at a certain time, take care of their armor and weapons accordingly, and communicate with one another when they required extra training or mission briefs after dinner.
With that, dinner was almost always finished around 8. Soup cleared up his bowl and spoon, eyeballing his drink with disdain. He truly hated it. Protein was a necessary part of his diet, but not one he wanted to incorporate in such…gross ways.
“I’ll finish that,” Snapper said. “Trade you for the rest of my soup. Got night watch anyways.”
“Hell yeah!” Soup cheered, pumping his fist and quickly pushing the cup away from him as though its mere existence disgusted him. To say that wouldn’t be too far off the mark. “You’re the best, Snaps.”
Once they were done, Soup humming happily into the bowl as he cleared it within seconds, they walked to the line and deposited their now-empty trays into the appropriate slot in the wall, ensuring to ditch all the scraps in the trash beforehand. They both personally knew the horrors of dish duty and didn't wish to impose any more struggles upon whatever poor clone that was behind that wall.
Walking side-by-side back to their barracks, Soup elbowed Snapper gently, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re like, a total asshole, but you like me, I know it!” He giggled.
“No, you’re annoying,” Snapper denied. He didn’t sound quite so convinced of that fact, though, given that he let Soup bounce onto his bunk, laying back with his arms crossed behind him. The bunks weren’t as bouncy as he had hoped.
“Nah, I’m, like, your best friend. You’d never admit it ‘cause you’re mean, though.”
“I’m sure that you think I’m your best friend.”
“I do! Because I am.”
“Alright,” Snapper grumbled. “Now get out of my bed, pest.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Soup grunted, pushing himself up temporarily. “It’s just so comfortable here, Snapper. I think I might take this place over.”
“Uh, no, you’re not. Lucius isn’t here.”
Lucius was the tiny tooka plushie that Soup had been given upon shore leave on his third day, watching the gambling going on between the older clones and the natives. He’d been hovering behind the chairs of his brothers for most of the game, watching to see how it went and the best way to play. After collecting his winnings, Stitches, the medic, had turned to Soup and tossed him the small gift. He took dear care of the tooka and treasured the memory, silly as it was.
“You’re so right,” Soup gasped, sitting up straight and swiveling his head towards his bed, a few rows away. He darted over, unearthing Lucius from the bundle of blankets he had hid it under.
“You’re strange, Soup,” Snapper commented.
“Yeah, well, you like me.”
“I don’t. I do have to get ready for night watch though. You’re up early, too.”
It was true, Soup did have to be up by 4am to watch the General and get some shooting practice in before the small range got too crowded for his taste. There was only so much room on the Negotiator, after all.
He let out a yawn and felt the pull in his muscles as he stretched his arms back lazily, watching as Snapper pulled on his helmet and flexed his gloved hands back and forth, moving the joint coverings into the correct position.
Despite his grumpiness, Soup knew Snapper cared. It was the small things, after all, between him and his brothers. Besides, whether or not he cared, the clones watched out for one another. There was danger in them being born at all, bred for war, for violence. A placeholder to protect the more important Jedi, to take the bullets that otherwise might have hit. And in the end, to die.
That was his purpose. But Soup didn’t think that he needed to adhere quite so strictly to it as others. Life was there, too, whether or not the Kaminoans had meant to give such a thing to them. They were only meant to survive if they didn’t die, never to live. It was, maybe, his small rebellion. Tookas tucked under his pillow, a little bit of extra soup from a friend, a brother, grumpy smiles and laughter heard from a table across the hall.
He slowly tensed and relaxed each muscle in turn, starting from his toes to his neck, feeling the anticipation on the horizon slowly melt into a soft, comfortable sleepiness. It was with Lucius tucked discreetly tucked under his arm, soft fur brushing his fingertips, and the heavy footsteps of Snapper’s boots as he left, that Soup fell asleep.
-end-