#medical anxiety | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

starqueensthings · 1 month

Text

Foreword | Prev | Next | ao3

WARNINGS: brief allusions to a traumatic past (June), but no detail provided. Moderate medical anxiety (Howzer). Moderately graphic descriptions of medical injuries. Repeated mentions of blood and discomfort/pain. RATING: 16+ for mature themes and mild to moderate whump. WC: 4500ish. (This chapter and the next were never intended to be separated, but it accumulated to nearly 8k words, and pruning certain aspects of this encounter in the name of brevity would only do a disservice to this story, so I apologize for the somewhat abrupt way this chapter ends). PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY.

“Uh… yeah?”

The responding voice was barely discernible over the cacophony radiating down that bustling hall, though was both unmistakably bathed in the accented intonation of a clone soldier, and seemingly quite confused by the civility of her gesture.

With a preparatory sigh, June prodded the control panel on the wall adjacent to the door and stepped back for it to permit her entry. Immediately apparent directly opposite that threshold, and sitting somewhat stooped atop that pathetic excuse of a paper bed sheet, was CT-5863.

If the Gods of technology were to ever bless it with the power of human deduction, the chrono on the wall behind him would have asserted that those blue eyes locked on his for the span of only a second; barely half of an inhale, a torpid blink at most. But, surely, too much had happened in that moment of unprecedented placidity for a mere “second” to have been all that passed.

Those armoured legs, wholly encrusted with the evidence of several rotations in grueling action, instantly ceased their absentminded swing over the long edge of that uncomfortably rigid gurney. The way his brows softened only enough for those gleaming brown eyes to widen in unrestrained surprise had her famined stomach plummeting near-painfully toward her toes in a sensation she was both unfamiliar with and unprepared for, and had the highly polished durasteel floor beneath her sneakers not continued to reflect the abhorrent fluorescent light overhead, that feeling only would have her entirely convinced she was now freefalling toward the cobblestone courtyard some eight stories below.

“Hi,” she squeaked as his expression continued to soften, that unprofessionally casual address escaping her tongue completely void of intention and thought, and had she not felt her jaw shift to let it pass through her lips, it could have been entirely feasible to believe that the salutation came from a third party.

If there was any semblance of a response waiting atop his tongue, it remained inhibited by the stupefaction still working its way across that tanned face. Lips initially contracted against the relentless gnaw of pain, now parting enough to expose their ragged and wind burnt nature and convey his unbridled bewilderment; those brows once furrowed beneath the act of being left to wallow for hours in the virile discomfort of a neglected wound, shifting to diminish that charming crease between them.

“Hi,” he echoed, reddened lips drawn slowly toward his ear ahead the beginnings of a one-sided smile that promised to only intensify her already befuddling paralysis.

June swallowed, that brief constriction of the throat reorienting the contents of her stomach momentarily granting her the abeyance to wrench her gaze from his, a gesture worthy of recognition based solely on how absurdly arduous of a task it seemed. ‘What am I doing here again?’ she asked herself, right hand thoughtlessly moving to retrieve the datapad from its clamp beneath her arm and bringing that lifeless screen toward her nose.

“Right,” she whispered to the sight of her distorted reflection, before clearing her throat and unsticking her sneakers from the floor.

The holocomputer, set atop a rolling desk at the foot of the bed, rose to life upon the frenetic poke of her finger. Though June had always been what her brother had previously deemed “embarrassingly deficient in stature”, that monitor sat just shy of successfully hiding him from view, and her composure was once again diminished by the heat surging to her cheeks upon the quick affirmation that his gaze had followed her every step across the room.

“You’re not a droid,” the soldier offered slowly, eyes narrowing under a perplexed sense of intrigue as a blood stained finger trailed to and fro across his chapped lip. “I mean— I don’t think so. Not like any I’ve ever seen…”

The acceptable reply would have been to offer him a laugh, a small scoff. Kriff, even an unsupported snort would have been sufficient to humour such an unintentionally comical assertion, but the continued prickle atop her skin and the nascent disquiet in her mind quickly devoured all potential for a moment of light-hearted banter.

“Nope,” she agreed, immediately thankful that her tone had forgone the shrill squawk of her first greeting and returned to her normal tambre. “They called the big guns in for you.”

“Uh oh. Why do I feel like that might not be a good thing?”

She risked another peek over the shield of her holoscreen, instantly and regretfully noting the delightfully sharp angle of where his jaw met his ear, that contour accentuated by the expanse of a bashful smile now doming both cheeks.

‘What the hell,’ she demanded silently as she failed, again, to offer him the titter he deserved. Aghast that the professionalism and charismatic bedside manner she’d spent long years and countless tears mastering had been ripped from her by something as immaterial as basic eye contact, she flicked her ponytail petulantly off her shoulder and refocussed her attention to the task at hand: logging into the Hospital’s charting software.

‘He’s just a soldier,’ she reminded herself with a snort of self-directed derision, desperately trying to extract her password from the depths of her distracted brain.

And he was. There was nothing overtly different or unusual about CT–5863 in relation to the hundred-or-so other clones that had passed in and out of her care since the war began. Quite frankly, there couldn’t be anything different about him, it was genetically impossible. So why had one look from this set of honeyed eyes seen her stomach careening into the next dimension and her nerves prickling as if every shift of his gaze left a trail atop her skin?

Thrice she tried and failed to enter her secure information into that software, yet its repeated beeps toward the inevitable system lock-out fell on entirely deaf ears, and it wasn’t until the screen strobed that she’d near-reached the maximum login attempts did some glimmer of awareness surge back to her.

“I’m Dr. Kiore,” June told him, attempting to banish that myriad of improper thoughts by corralling every cooperating neuron into entering her password, and the breath she’d unintentionally held in her lungs was granted their escape atop a sigh of relief as that familiar landing screen emerged in front of her. “What’s your name?”

“CT–58—”

“No, Captain, your name.”

“My name?” A puzzled pause preceded her answer, that brief second of hesitation having failed to lessen any of the obvious confusion behind those two words, and the notion that she may have to formally explain such a simple concept was the first to pull a smile to June’s lips.

But, “Howzer.” He recovered quickly, offering his name in the same tone he’d used upon hearing her tap on the door, and the small creases now wreathing those twinkling eyes as they narrowed in something close to suspicion entirely laid bare his continued bewilderment at her behaviour.

“Howzer,” she repeated, offering him a casual smile as she swiped her finger across the monitor and entered the information next to his designation number. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A moment’s innocent silence fell between them as she typed, masterfully toggling between different pages of his medical chart and familiarizing herself with the details of his treatment history. For an active soldier, particularly one that appeared as if he’d spent several respite-free rotations laying in the foreign dirt of a distant planet, his chart was remarkably vacant, the only few noted injuries being quickly treated in the field and recorded somewhat haphazardly by the trio of different medics who had seen him.

“I– I think that might be the first time a civilian’s asked me that,” he contemplated under his breath, eyes unfocussing as he rubbed that dirty palm across the stubble on his chin

“Yeah, well… they were supposed to ask downstairs,” June scoffed, the grumble swaddling her tone readily exposing the disdain for the repeated shortcomings of her colleagues. “I’ve asked them four billion times to try and remember, but of course no one listens to the youngest.”

While his lungs expanded to utter what was undoubtedly going to be another humorous quip, the sentiment was stolen off his tongue by a sudden and salient cringe of discomfort. In that otherwise banal motion of sitting up straight, hand reaching upward to thoughtlessly push those dark waves further back from his forehead, a spasm of pain quickly froze his actions, that sharp jaw quickly clenching behind olive cheeks as a muted grunt rumbled in his chest.

Harrowingly familiar with the discomfited sounds of a trooper in agony, June darted from behind the computer without a second glance, feet taking her earnestly to his bedside where Howzer continued to grit his teeth against the pain of attempting to lower his elbow back down.

She stopped when she reached his beside, and too determined to somehow minimize his discomfort, her focussed eyes entirely missed the way shame had forced his gaze away from her. In a gesture that inexplicably attuned her concentration nearly as thoroughly as it further chilled her skin, she tugged the sleeves of her labcoat toward her elbows.

It took barely a breath of being within arms-length of the stranger for the pathetic remnants of his shirt, and the implications of its destruction, to resonate; that typically tight compression top now sliced into misshapen shards thanks to the expanse of an immense gash in the material. Yet more gruesome than the soaked integrity of that metallic cloth— its creation having once promised to prevent such wounds from occurring —was a piteous patch of gauze so saturated with blood that it had begun to leak a small cataract down his side, that seemingly limitless river of blood having already stained the exposed skin of which it bordered.

“Sheesh,” June mumbled under her breath, reaching slowly toward him until her fingers wrapped carefully around the elbow he was subconsciously attempting to use as a protective barrier.

Howzer’s breath hitched sharply in his throat as her fingers found their mark, though despite that unintentional huff of trepidation, he offered no resistance as she began to cautiously lift that arm back upward mere millimeters at a time until the sight of that grisly gash reappeared. The sheer size of that weeping laceration, stretching across the anatomically labelled “quadrant 6”, and reaching all the way from central rib cage to interior scapula, made ascertaining the true degree of the injury quite a challenge from her standing position in front of him. As June battled the need for a better vantage against attempting to prevent causing Howzer can any extraneous pain, it became apparent nothing short of clambering onto the bed beside him and simply straddling his left hip could allot her the unobstructed view she needed to formulate an appropriate treatment plan.

“I can’t get a great look from here,” she admitted with an apologetic grimace, now cautiously redirecting his arm forward in an effort to ascertain precisely how far back this horrid laceration reached from its inception below his left armpit. “Bear with me just for a sec… it’s gonna hurt a smidge.”

“It’s fine,” he answered, though wrapped in little more than a tight-lipped mumble, his reassurances fell flat in their task of convincing her. “It doesn’t hurt. I jus– ugh…”

A series of murmured apologies left her lips as something near a jolt of pain robbed his tongue of that white lie, and she tactfully refrained from commenting as she watched that silly cotton square fail to contain another surging red waterfall.

“You know,” she started as his jaw rutted forward to repress another hum of discomfort. “If you had just let them give you an NBA injection downstairs, this wouldn’t be so bad.”

“Don’t need one,” he grunted back as she flicked away those soaked and frayed fabric shards and began to pluck that impetuously placed patch of medical gauze from his side. “I told you, it doesn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t hurt, but you couldn’t get your shirt off?”

That delicate accusation left her lips before the gates of professional restraint could corral it. The implications of second-guessing both a patient’s feedback and their subjective symptoms was highly unprincipled, yet despite his continued refusals, there was no ignoring the fact that, while half of his battered and abused armament sat stacked in one of the chairs by the door, he’d been unable to pull that snug garment from his torso.

To her relief, that same lop-sided smirk inched back across those dehydrated lips, eyes softening as they danced lightly across her features, and June was immediately grateful for the trivial need to extract an unopened sterile gauze pack from her pocket as her cheeks tingled anew.

“Alright, smartypants, you got me,” he admitted, the tips of his ears reddening under the unfamiliar vulnerability of his confession. “Maybe I just don’t like injections. Maybe they freak me out… a little.”

An ephemeral glance was all it took to identify the nature of his budding embarrassment; the reaffixture of his gaze upon his lap, the tiny flitter of his cheek as he chewed on whether he ought to defend his admission or not, the horrid clicking of his molars as discomfort had them relentlessly grinding against each other. Yet it was not the professional obligation to advocate for a medicinal intervention that saw June’s hands hesitate on their way to fully rid him of that incapacitated bandage, but an inexplicable and damn-near irrepressible urge to console him.

“Hold this here for me,” she instructed delicately as if she hadn’t heard him, indicating her need with a small tap of the finger whilst pressing that new fresh fabric to his wound in the void of its sodden counterpart. “Just for a minute while I grab some goodies, but firm pressure— hold it like you mean it.”

He shifted instantly on his seat to assent to her request, right hand forgoing its docile perch atop his thigh to cross his torso and clamp that material into place; those grimy fingers momentarily weaving their way into hers in his haste to comply.

That inadvertent touch set her very nerves alight, the ceaseless prickle lurking behind every inch of her skin intensifying to a degree that promised to expropriate the floor from beneath her feet again, and having been largely unable to resurrect her stomach from the depths of her toes where it had buried itself at first sight of him, June hurried to snatch her fingers from his and depart his bedside. The unprecedented euphoria of his skin brushing atop her own amidst that otherwise innocuous motion had virtually supplanted all evidence of the preceding sympathy, and replaced it with a moment of attraction so potent, she’d failed to digest any of the apology he’d quickly stammered during her retreat.

‘Maker have mercy, would you get a grip…’ she silently scolded, eyes scanning the assortment of supplies on the shelves in front of her as she forced a slow breath through pursed lips. ‘You’re being ridiculous. So he’s a little pretty… You just feel bad for him. It’s just pity. He’s been sitting here a long time, and he’s obviously uncomfortable… that’s all.’

But that weak justification had barely gained any potential momentum before it was squashed by the reality she could not deny. Attributing the peculiar undulation of this interaction to pity alone was both ignorant and ludicrous, as Howzer was not the first soldier to admit having a distaste for injections; the majority of her combat patients shirked from even the mention of that so-dreaded injector. In fact, most were deeply suspicious of anything even distantly related to the field of medicine, many turning pugnacious in their discomfort, and eyeing Lumi with a powerful mistrust as if that hovering medical assistant was concealing a murderous motive behind those yellow oculars. Others flinched at the mere thought of sedation, often demanding to hear any and all available treatment alternatives before consenting to whatever procedural route they deemed most tolerable regardless of its diminished efficacy, and it was this perpetual argument, this consistent mentality, that had June entirely convinced the clones in her care harboured significant trauma from their Kaminoan upbringing.

So if pity was to blame for the tingle atop her skin as the music of his familiar accent danced in her ears, why today? Why this ailing soldier, and not one of the hundred or so others she’d previously treated and discharged without pause. Why not Bolts, whose cheeks became stained with uncontrollable tears during those brief moments of lucidity when he awoke to be scanned at tragically frequent intervals? Why not the Commander from three rotations ago who’d begged her to falsify a clean bill of health so he could return to the front lines where his brothers were undoubtedly being slaughtered in his absence? What was it about this man… this objectively meaningless encounter… that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing upright as if there was something lingering in the next second? Why was this set of brown eyes imbued with the power to lasso her lungs into her stomach? Steal the floor from beneath her feet? Freeze time as if the universe itself had held its breath at first sight of him?

‘You’re better than this,’ she told herself as she rustled noisily around those laden shelves, heaping an array of various supplies into her arms. ‘Swallow whatever this weird attraction is and get on with it so you can go home. You’re tired and starving.’

Sighing heavily through her nose, she pulled the cauterizing pen from the top shelf and added it to the pile of tools clamped against her chest atop an small tub of her preferred burn salve, a USI injection tool, a single-use bottle of saline for wound disinfection purposes, and a handful of the standard 4 x 8 inch dermabacta patches.

Keeping her eyes deliberately downward, she nudged that locker door closed with her hip and started back toward the bed. After pausing briefly to power on and deposit the cauterizing pen beside the computer, June tipped forward and dumped the remaining products onto the paper sheet beside his waiting figure, attempting to ignore the return of his warm gaze by reaffixing her eyes to the tattered vestiges of his top.

“Shirt’s gotta come off,” she advised him, placing her hands on her hips and gesturing with a small nod to the garment he’d deferred removing as long as possible. “Contamination risk is too high if it stays flapping around the wound after I disinfect the area. Think you can pull it off without too much… ouchie?”

Those ensanguined fingers drummed nervously against the gauze he continued to press in place, a contemplative hum issuing from his nose as his lips shifted to a grimace. “I can give it a shot,” he finally assented amid a doubtful chuckle. “Unless maybe cutting it off is an option, and I can try to preserve what’s left of my dignity?”

“I mean– I could,” she agreed half-heartedly, though the image of her hands drifting carefully atop his skin whilst snipping that cloth from his bare chest nearly overpowered the awareness of that option being the least practical. “But we’d be sending you out of here shirtless afterward and it’s not exactly the warmest time of year.”

“Fair point,” he apprehensively agreed. “Maybe there’s a hospital gown or something that could pass as blacks until I can sneak my way into barracks?”

“Not unless blacks are covered in purple cogs and tied together behind your neck,” June scoffed. “And, honestly, if that doesn't send your dignity to the grave, I don’t know what would.”

Had such a disappointed huff not left his nose in that subsequent moment, the mental image of him trying to awkwardly stuff the excess material of that scratchy, violet gown behind his chest plate likely would have had a small snicker escape her lips, yet the unease dominating his expression instead resurrected that mystifying need to commiserate with this alluring stranger.

“We can handle this,” she asserted, watching him thoughtfully chew the inside of his cheek while picking uselessly at a blemish in the teal paint on his thigh plate. “If I help, you won’t even need to lift your arms. Plus– once it’s off, I can throw it in the Cleanser Tube and get it washed while I’m patching you up. That way the purple robe can stay in the cupboard, and you’ll have your shirt back to walk outta here dignity intact. Deal?”

His gaze shifted upward, darting back and forth between her eyes as if searching their depths for any semblance of the ulterior motive he’d seemingly grown to expect.

“Okay,” he agreed a sigh later, evidently failing to find anything other than quiet confidence behind that sapphire blue. “But if I start weeping, do your best not to laugh.”

“I’ll try,” she answered in mock intensity, waiting for his timorous gaze to meet hers again before offering a jesting smile. “Though in all honesty, Captain, just wait until you feel my hands. I’ll be more surprised if you don’t start weeping.”

Stepping intentionally around his armoured knees toward the head of the bed, she watched him steel himself by straightening his posture and taking a deep breath. “I’ll pull on your sleeve,” she told him, permitting herself only a moment to appreciate the endearing quartet of freckles on the right side of his neck. “You pull your arm.”

She guided her thumbs under the elastic cuff of his top, that deceivingly thin fabric instantly reminding her of the wetsuit she’d once donned during a diving trip on Naboo, though there was something significantly more tutelary about this injected material, as if the microthreads used to create it had been fibers of some pliable steel.

“I appreciate you being so… helpful,” he spoke, wincing slightly as his hand disappeared into the darkness of his sleeve and redirected itself downward through the trunk of the garment. “I guess I did need the big guns.”

June hesitated, barely able to repress the small smile promising to peel across her lips as she rolled and bunched the hem of his shirt in her fists, waiting until his palm had firmly planted itself beside his hip before proceeding.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked him in what she hoped was a casual tone despite her heart pounding loudly in her ears at his indirect laudation.

“‘Course,” he answered, squeezing his eyes closed as she began to stretch and guide that narrow collar past his ear and over his meticulously cropped hair.

“You’re not the only soldier who hates injections. You’re one of very many, actually… and one of even more that tries to hide it under this very unnecessary ‘tough guy’ attitude. While I don’t personally understand the fear behind a microdose of medication, that doesn’t mean I don’t understand being very wary of something, and that by no means makes you a wuss.”

He emerged from the depths of his shirt with a smoldering look that she’d never seen adorn the eyes of a soldier before, and the intensity of how he gazed sternly yet somewhat reverently into hers near-forced a paralytic shiver down her spine.

She near-cowered under its magnitude, and growing increasingly aware of how her body continued to betray her demand for professionalism by relentlessly inflaming her cheeks, she stepped carefully back around his knees and stuffed her fingers under the cuff of the other sleeve.

“Ready?” she asked as he upheld a pensive silence, waiting for him to consent before hooking one hand under the hem of that top now draped over his shoulder, and directing it carefully down the muscular arm he shifted to grant the garments removal.

She didn’t wait to see if he’d further acknowledge her expostulation before wadding up that soaked and soiled fabric and departing the bedside, crossing the room to where the Cleanser Tube sat recessed into the wall. After opening the door and shoving the clothing inside, she activated a sonic cycle with a quick poke of a button and turned to the adjacent Hand Sanitary Station.

Both pieces of machinery were considered to be state of the art medical technology, and were proprietary pieces licensed to only this medical facility while the patent approval process remained clogged behind far more consequential senatorial matters. The Cleanser Tube, designed to wash, sanitize and dry textiles in a fraction of the time that a traditional washing machine took, was installed on every floor, ensuring the sanitation droids could efficiently reuse the ludicrous amount of bedding the hospital exploited daily. Its pseudo-partner in technological advancement, the Sanitary Station, had demanded significantly more adaptability from the medical staff upon its installation, most of whom had spent several expensive years learning to meticulously disinfect their hands prior to any patient contact. While not all that different in concept to the Cleanser beside it, the absence of friction in hand washing was a foreign concept for a surgeon used to scrubbing their skin to within an inch of its already shoddy integrity before initiating a procedure. Nevertheless, the benefit of its efficiency had proved largely pivotal for those increasingly numerous days where surgeries were booked back to back.

Its familiar ion aroma wafted upward into June’s nose the second she approached and forced her fists through each of the two side-by-side valves. Sensing the new additions in its chamber, the machine activated automatically, tightening the silicone grip around each wrist to near-discomfort while cool, damp air began to circulate between her fingers. An inappropriately loud chime moments later alerted what felt like the entire hospital that the disinfection cycle had completed, and the machine ceased its vibration for only a moment before those sophisticated motors kicked back into life, preparing to swaddle her hands in a thin layer of purple nitrile. When all ten of her fingers had been appropriately coated, the valves released their complete encirclement of her wrists, and she pulled her hands from the tubes, fingers flexing habitually against the irksome constriction.

Foreword | Prev | Next

Tag list: @anxiouspineapple99 @sinfulsalutations @starrylothcat @nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius @secondaryrealm @dystopicjumpsuit @freesia-writes @sev-on-kamino @littlemissmanga @523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @wolffegirlsunite @sunshinesdaydream @clonemedickix @drafthorsemath @jediknightjana @moonlightwarriorqueen @starstofillmydream @mooncommlink @wizardofrozz @trixie2023 @clonethirstingisreal @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mythical-illustrator @arctrooper69

#starqueenswrittenworks #The Only Exception #Captain Howzer x fem!OC #fem!OC x Captain Howzer #fem!OC x Howzer #Howzer x fem!OC #3rd pov #bad batch fan fic #howzer bad batch #bad batch howzer #medical anxiety #medical injuries #whump #light angst #light whump #angst

20 notes · View notes

starqueensthings · 1 month

Text

WARNINGS: elusions to a traumatic past and an accompanying verbalized dislike for the opposite sex (June). Medical anxiety (Howzer). Moderately graphic descriptions of medical injuries, corrective procedures (incl what a cauterization might look/smell like), needles, the beginnings of an anxiety attack (June). RATING: 16+ for mature themes, mild to moderate whump, mild angst (and a heavy dash of fluff because why the heck not lol). WC: 3500ish. (This chapter and the previous were never intended to be separated but they accumulated to nearly 8k words, and snipping certain aspects of this encounter in the name of brevity would only do a disservice to the story, so I apologize for how abruptly this chapter transitions from the last). PLEASE ENSURE YOU’VE READ THE FOREWORD BEFORE PROCEEDING FOR AN IN-DEPTH DESCRIPTION OF WHAT DEGREE OF CONTENT YOU CAN EXPECT THROUGHOUT THIS STORY.

Foreword | Prev | Next

Howzer’s eyes had thankfully done away with that ablaze and piercing stare in her temporary absence, though for how much of the intensity they’d lost, that twinkling set of amber had retained all of the warmth they seemed unable to entirely shed.

“Don’t know if I like the look of those,” he jested, though the way his eyes darted between her purple hands grossly betrayed the relentless facade of that feigned poise.

“Doesn’t warm them up, unfortunately, but at least you won’t catch my cooties,” June chuckled, hoping a dash of humour and a quirky wiggle of the fingers might soften the emotional toll she knew would accompany her next assertion. “Captain… I need to give you a pain injection.”

The sfotness of his expression hardened near-instantly, jaw tensing and forcing his lips into a frown that nowhere near-suited him as well as its round cheeked counterpart, and June could only grimace apologetically as he cocked an embittered eyebrow at her.

“We can’t use topical numbant on broken skin,” she beseeched in response to his silent disapproval. “The risk of trapping bacteria in the bloodstream is too high when the wound is as… open… as yours is. We can rawdog this if that’s really what you want, but you’ll have to try and sit still while I'm working. Or you can let me give you an in—”

“I can sit still,” he argued instantly, offering a shrug of the shoulders that was simply too passive for him to have understood the severity of the imminent procedure. “I’m great at sitting still.”

“While someone burns your skin back together with a kriffing hot needle?!”

Watching her words disintegrate that iron-clad intransigence would have been near-comical had his eyes not widened to something that too-closely resembled a trauma response, and despite knowing her brutal honesty was likely the quickest method to ensuring the full comprehension she needed from him before proceeding, her heart sank to lay with her stomach as she watched her words initiate an arrant downturn in his demeanour.

“Well geez, doc,” he grumbled, shirking from her pleading gaze by hanging his chin to his chest. “Why don’t you just give it to me straight…”

“I’m sorry,” she spoke quietly after swallowing the snort that near-followed his unexpected sardonicism. “Would it maybe help if I showed you the injector? You can see how it works and how tiny it actually is?”

“Maybe.” His response was near-silent, eyes flickering upward to hers only long enough to betray the decorum to which he still ardently clung.

Finally acceding to that inexplicable need to comfort him, and forsaking her better professional judgment, June clambered backward onto the bed beside him, that hovering cot momentarily swaying under the addition of her weight as she shimmied backward until they sat shoulder to shoulder.

“This is the actual USI tool,” she advised him, pulling the Universal Serum Injector from the previously collected pile of tools behind her and a small, orange-capped, crystal vial from her breast pocket. “And this lil guy is the Nociceptor Blocking Agent, or NBA serum. The vial clicks into the injector like this—” she snapped that tiny clear tube into place and pulled a small trigger to eject the cap, “—and the little orange top protecting the needle just kinda pops off. After that, it's as simple as poking it gently into the supraclavicular space right here at the base of your neck and waiting a moment for it to work.”

“And that’s it?” he asked, jaw shifting under the duress of how aggressively he continued to grind those teeth while his eyes remained affixed on the dinky little pin that would allegedly bring forth an excruciating death. “That’s all?”

“I promise.”

“Alright,” he finally conceded, shifting his attention upward to her eyes. “I trust you.”

Her stomach lurched at the way his gaze bore into hers, softly… acceptingly… unassertively… granting her the gifts of both his agency in that moment, and the degree of trust to which these always-suspecting soldiers notoriously only offered each other. Bottom lip nestling itself between her teeth to bridle the atypically bashful smile threatening to emerge, she simply nodded her gratitude and turned away from him.

“I’ll count down from three,” she cautioned, sneakers slapping atop the steel floor as she leaped somewhat ungracefully from the bed and oriented herself in front of him. “Three—” she kept the injector hidden at her side. “Two—” a gentle hand placed on his shoulder to brace his skin for impact. “One.”

The span of a tense blink over those amber eyes saw her expertly plunge the tiny needle home and release the entire vial of that magical serum. By the time his gaze returned to hers, one eye at a time, she’d deftly retracted the empty container and chucked it into the “sharps” bin beside the bed.

“Are you kidding me?” he demanded, the grin peeling across his lips surprising her enough to still her hands as they reached for the bottle of disinfectant. “That’s all?!”

“That’s all,” she answered with a small shrug.

“Maker, I am going to murder Gauge when I see him.”

“Who?” June asked, as she unscrewed the lid and peeled back the sanitary foil sticker put in place over the mouth of the bottle to prevent any unwanted microbes from contaminating its contents.

“Gauge. He’s my medic,” Howzer explained with eyes crinkled to near-closed, shoulders shaking beneath each huff of his amusement. “He’s in for it, now. Kriffing sadist jabs that thing into us like it's a spoon.”

“A sadist combat medic?” June snorted, screwing the cap back into place. “That’s a very worrying combination. You better try and stay on his good side.”

“He better stay on mine,” Howzer asserted, shaking his head.

The all-consuming (and mouth watering) recognition of his partial nudity did not make an appearance in her awareness until she sat back on her heels, eyes quickly scanning the position she’d meticulously positioned him in after climbing onto the cot beside him. By leaning him on an incline away from her and resting his arm innocuously atop his head, she’d unknowingly provided herself with both optimal wound access, and an unobstructed view of his remarkable physique. The only thing darker than the smattering of hair south of his navel was the brown of nipples near-perfectly perched on either side of the most divinely-crafted chest she’d ever seen. And rivaling every ridge, every contour of that muscular torso, were arms so immaculately sculpted that the only fight she could wage against the heat boiling below her skin was to strip off her now smothering labcoat and toss it onto the chair next to his armour.

And though she continued to cling to that necessary professionalism as fervently as he’d initially clung to his own stubborn refusal for pain control, there was absolutely no preventing her eyes from hungrily roaming atop the ripples of his ribcage as she scooched into position behind him, and attempting to stay focused as she squeezed that plastic bottle of saline overtop his wound was near impossible as those defined ridges of muscles continued to revolt against every drop of cold liquid trickling down his abdomen.

Something near relief pulled a sigh from her lips when that bottle finally emptied. Patting the wound dry with clean gauze in her right hand, she deftly pulled the medscanner from her pocket with her left and spun the dial on the front to reach the Hematology menu. Once that tiny infrared beam had confirmed there were no lingering signs of any foreign cells or bacteria, she stowed that invaluable tool on the bed beside her and reached, instead, for the cauterizing pen now emitting tiny puffs of white smoke.

“So what happened to you?” she probed moments later, ensuring Howzer’s eyes had deviated from that smoking needle before carefully touching it to his skin. “Get in a fight with a vibroblade wielding droid?”

“I wish,” he snorted. “It was… well, pretty stupid. The guys and I were transferring possession of our base to the relieving battalion. I gave the okay for the gunships to take off and then got distracted catching up with a buddy I haven’t seen since graduating. One of my men saw me getting left behind and decided shooting a grappling hook at me would be the best way to get me on board.”

“Maker have mercy,” she scoffed, brows furrowing in concentration as methodically guided the white hot tool atop that separated skin. “That’s idiotic.”

“Might have been cool if it worked,” Howzer answered. “Geo’s a smart guy, but doesn’t always think things through before he acts. He’s on my list after Gauge for the next time I feel— what's that smell?!”

She barely had time to disengage that red hot pin before every muscle in his abdomen contracted under the urgent and desperate effort of sitting up.

“Don’t look!” she snapped at him as he hastened to peer under his arm in her direction. Clamping one gloved hand atop that crisp and darkened line of fused skin she knew would likely make his stomach turn, she attempted to block his view with the palm of the other. “Trust me, it’s a sore sight right now, especially if you’re squeamish.”

She peeked around her palm, lips pursing to keep from smiling at the sight of him perched up on his free elbow, nose scrunched in utter repugnance as the putrid smell of burnt flesh continued to waft upward into his nose.

“Is… is that the smell of—?”

“Sure is,” she answered curtly. “And it smells as crispy as it looks so while you’re working on not looking, maybe try not breathing too.”

“‘Try not breathing…’” he repeated in little more than a whisper, dropping carefully back onto his side, and June was relieved to hear a chuckle supporting his words. “I know you’re the doctor, but I feel like breathing might be helpful here…”

“My boss would absolutely lay an egg if he heard me offer such heinous medical advice.” Her eyes narrowed under the embrace of genuine amusement as laughter poured from her lips, the image of Challa’s newly introduced perma-scowl forming as clearly in her mind's eye as if he’d been standing at her elbow. “That and the daily reminder of all the cold-hand complaints he has to field from my patients…”

Flooded with a wave of foreboding, June remembered the meeting Challa had requested in his office upon completion of this procedure, and the implications of what his request undoubtedly meant had her eyes near-rolling and the smile yanked from her lips. Challa didn’t often demand a private audience… at least, not with her. The last adventure into the intimidating confines of his windowless space had included a harsh castigation for the excessive overtime she’d shouldered over the last few weeks, and to request that she start walking around between surgeries with her hands nestled into her armpits so he could get through a day without having to apologize on behalf of her poor circulation.

After permitting a sigh laden with repressed dread to pass through now frowning lips, she sat back and peered down at the result of her handiwork. Despite having to battle the distraction of the dimples teasing her from the base of his back, she’d managed to complete a remarkably clean repair job; the cauterized edges of what used to be that oozing laceration were both crisp and dark, indicating the ideal clinical end point for such a procedure. After powering off that trusty tool and placing it back beside the computer, she retrieved the tub of burn salve perched only inches from her hip.

“Can I tell you something now?” Howzer spoke suddenly as she uncapped that pot of that sulfur-smelling ointment.

“Sure,” she answered while scooping a generous amount of the orange paste from its container and beginning to smear it carefully atop his side.

“Your fingers are freakishly cold… but anyone who complains about the hands that saved their lives, maybe doesn’t deserve to have been saved in the first place.”

Whatever distant presumption she’d formulated in that microsecond between granting him that unnecessary permission and hearing his opinion voiced, it was nowhere-near matched the unexpectedly profound admonition that left those now-smiling lips.

She paused, hands stilling in their motion of reaffixing the lid back on the tub as she fought to wrangle the dozen or so fundamental reasons why she did not agree with him… and the one reason she did.

“Doesn’t everyone deserve to be saved?” she settled on asking, collecting one of the several bacta patches she’d grabbed earlier.

“Do you actually believe that? Or is that something they tell you to believe?”

His challenge came so simply… so earnestly, it was as if she’d somehow offered him the exact response that he’d expected, and despite the bold nature of his rebuttal, there was no sign of regret lingering in those charmingly superficial lines around his eyes; his gaze did not shift to timidly follow the movements of her hands as they proceeded to tear off the paper backing from that patch but, instead, remained intently searching her eyes for the truth.

”Well, there’s an exception to every rule,” June explained, feeling her cheeks begin to flush under the duress of the vulnerability he had suddenly requested from her. “But surely everyone deserves the same chance at life?”

He offered only a contemplative hum in response, watching her lower that clear polymer patch onto his skin, and ensuring its complete adhesion by pressing firmly around its perimeter.

“Who’s your exception?”

She’d barely begun to crumple the backing paper when he spoke again, pushing himself back to a seated position so quickly that his return to such close proximity nearly froze the breath in her lungs. Yet, more paralyzing in that moment was the audacious probes into her personal beliefs; his brazen yet polite demands for clues as to who she was beyond this already untraditional doctor-patient exchange. And as her gaze flickered upwards from her rubbish laden hand, attempting to find even a glimpse of derision or contempt between those dark, relaxed brows was a feat near impossible, as those honeyed eyes had upheld much of the same twinkle that had already proven held the power to dismantle her.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she answered atop an artificial chuckle.

It was the most she could offer on the small waft of breath her lungs had managed to thaw, and how close she’d come to conceding his tacit request… to actually uttering her truth… to divulging that forbidden secret… unsettled her more thoroughly than any inexplicable degree of attraction had since stepping into 18-S.

“Yes. I would.”

He leaned ever closer, eyes dancing across her features, each lagging blink wordlessly communicating that he’d sit there for eternity if it promised him even a glimmer of her being behind the guise she upheld with a labcoat; that there was some unidentifiable quality about her that he found equally as enamoring; that perhaps if he poked carefully enough at certain spots in this facade of hers, he may actually truly see her.

“Another time, Captain,” she whispered, wrenching her eyes from his and climbing hurriedly off the bed.

“Will there be one?” he asked before she’d even taken a step.

She looked downward to her shoes and the floor firmly beneath them, eyes unfocussing, heart thumping heavily in her ears, lip twitching beneath the sudden urge to hide itself between her teeth lest she say more. She swallowed.

“Keep trying to grapple your way into a gunship and there might be.”

She didn’t turn to watch that grin peel across his lips, instead making a direct line for the Cleanser Tube to retrieve his long-forgotten shirt. Unable to meet his eyes again, she simply tossed it in his direction, muttering a “you can get dressed,” before hurrying to the safety of her near-hidden perch behind the holocomputer and jabbing it back to life.

A prickle erupted atop her skin entirely different from the series of others that had accompanied each bashful smile since the beginning of this somewhat atypical encounter. She was suddenly uncomfortable; suddenly sweating as if she’d just been thrown center stage and was attempting to hide from the beaming spotlight that she’d never asked to be in; suddenly yearning to have her labcoat back on; suddenly and horrifyingly unable to refute the fortuitous connection to this person that she had once tried to label as mere pity, and suddenly desperate to escape it.

Most dismaying was the nearly irrepressible urge to allow him. To tell him. To share. To accept. Blind and potent attraction to someone was one thing; pity was another… but this superseded all other aspects of this precariously flirtatious conversation despite having not been flirtatious in nature at all, and for the first time in a long time, she felt unequipped… unprepared…

‘You hate men,’ she reminded herself, hoping that long-chanted mantra may hold the power to simply erase Howzer from both this room and her awareness.

“Layer two subdermal laceration–” she typed near frantically as he stood to redress. “–Located quadrant 6... 18.4 cm in length… full thickness separation. Hematology shows no evidence of infection or foreign cells. Patient may experience slight hypertrophic scarring. Treated in situ with precision cauterization, Nifuran burn cream, and bacta patch. Escharotomy is not required at this time. Aftercare discussed. Patient discharged forthwith. Care to be continued by CM.”

Piece by piece, his armour clicked back into place, years of practicing those repetitive yet crucial motions had evidently rendered him a near-master at recladding that broad frame in record time, and chancing even the most fleeting glance in his direction saw her increasingly disappointed in herself; the image of his semi naked form now utterly eradicated by the sheer majesty of seeing his tall figure encompassed in that dominating kit.

She could delay no longer, and feigning ignorant of his perch by the door where he stood patiently waiting with her labcoat draped atop the cleanest section of his arm, dwindled in credibility with every extended second she took to type and retype those same treatment notes.

“There in one sec,” she told him without offering him the respect of eye contact, powering off the computer and stalking back toward the storage cupboard to collect a series of other necessities.

He smiled as she approached moments later, eyeing the assortment of supplies she’d clamped somewhat awkwardly in her still purple hands.

“These are for you,” she told him, the desperation to leave his presence and seek the respite of her office intensifying with every second that he cast a smile in her direction. “This little tub is burn cream— it smells like rotten eggs but it’ll help exacerbate the healing process. That patch needs changing every 24 hours, and sooner if the area gets wet so here’s a bunch more. Twist a corner to rip the paper on the back, and then press hard around the edges to activate the adhesive. It’s in a bit of an odd spot, so Gauge may have to help you. He can access my treatment notes using any MedBay computer if he needs them.”

He took each product with a nod of understanding, turning each over in his hands briefly before pocketing them in a cargo pouch nestled on his lower back. Unable to withstand another moment with the undulation in her stomach, she offered Howzer one last smile before turning toward the door.

“Don’t forget this,” he said as she prodded a button on the control panel to free her.

“Oh, right,” she scoffed, collecting her lab coat from his arm with her lip between her teeth and pulling it back over her shoulders.

“Uh– doc?” Howzer probed as she pivoted to enter the chaos awaiting her across the threshold.

“Yeah, Captain.”

“Er… thank you for– you know. It was really nice to meet you. And— and I’m happy you’re not a droid.”

Though his hands uselessly shifted that battered helmet tucked below his arm, he upheld the integrity of his gaze as she peered over her shoulder at him.

“It’s June.” She answered without thinking, the confession swinging a right hook in the direction of both her professional and personal judgment. “My name’s June.”

She left 18-S without another word, without lingering to digest his reaction, without bothering to offer the proper valediction that she should have. She needed her office, she needed to breathe air that wasn’t polluted with the undeniable connection to this random man, and she needed it now.

Foreword | Prev | Next

#starqueenswrittenworks #The Only Exception #Howzer x fem!OC #fem!OC x Howzer #captain howzer x fem!OC #fem!oc x Captain Howzer #3rd pov #medical anxiety #medical injuries #moderate whump #whump #mild angst #angst #anxiety #anxiety attack

11 notes · View notes