Waxer sees the explosion, sees the Commander, sees that he’s too late to help. He sees the seed of fire bloom in the heart of the building, sees the shockwave ripple out, carrying tons and tons of durasteel, sees Cody try to move out of the way.
Sees a piece of the building catch him straight in the face, sees him go down. Runs to him and sees the way his helmet’s collapsed in on itself. Sees the way he lies so still and limp. Drops to his knees in the middle of a warzone, uncaring of the blaster shots passing over their heads, trusting the giant piece of metal that’s landed in front of the Commander to save them from the worst of it. Around them, vode surge forward, pressing on past the damage.
“I need a medic to location 23-58-19 now,” he hollers into his comm. He doesn’t wait for the answer. Gently, he places a hand on Cody’s shoulder. It looks like the rest of him was spared from the collision, but there’s blood leaking out from the cracks in his bucket. “Commander,” he says, urgent, calm. “Commander, can you hear me?”
Against the boot-packed dirt, Cody’s hand twitches. Twitches again. Taps once.
“Okay, okay, good. We’re going to get you out of here, sir, just stay with me, alright?” Waxer goes to touch his helmet, then reconsiders. Until he knows more about Cody’s injury, he can’t risk jostling his head. He’s alive and coherent right now, and Waxer just needs to keep him that way. He settles for grabbing the Commander’s other hand. “Can you feel your lower body?”
“Unfor’nately,” Cody slurs and, well, if he can be sarcastic, Waxer’s pretty sure he’s going to live.
“Good, that’s good, sir. Hang tight, medic’s on the way.”
Cody mumbles something, but between the damage to his bucket and the way his voice has gone all soft and hoarse, Waxer can’t make it out.
“What was that, sir?”
“Said, ‘y’not shiny ‘nymore, Waxer. Got m’blood on you ‘n everything.” Cody squeezes his hand.
“Okay, sir. Okay.”
Sigma finds them within minutes, but it’s still long enough for Cody’s hand to go slack in Waxer’s. It’s long enough for Waxer’s heart to climb into his throat as he watches his Commander die, helpless to do anything about it.
The droids are coming back this way.
Sigma crashes to his knees on Cody’s other side, throwing his medpack open. “Sitrep, trooper.” He begins running a scanner over Cody’s head and shoulders.
“Sir, the Commander was caught in the explosion that took out the warehouse. He was hit by a piece of debris and it broke his helmet. He was conscious and aware enough to talk to me until about three minutes ago, at which time he passed out.” Waxer shifts back onto one foot and bounces his knee.
“Okay.” Sigma brings the scanner closer to his face, then huffs. “Gods-karking-damnit, Commander,” he swears. Then, to Waxer, “No neck injury, minimal concussion. We need to get him out of here before he bleeds out, though. Motherfucker sliced his face open.”
Sigma drops the scanner back into his bag and digs around in his belt pouch, pulling out a vibroblade. Waxer recoils. “Sir…?”
“Waxer, I’m going to need you to hold him still while I cut his helmet off. Can you do that?” Sigma looks across the Commander’s prone body, stare burning into him even through the visor.
“Sir, yes sir!”
Cody comes around just as Sigma’s prying the first piece of plastoid free. It’s by his neck, and it comes off bloody and mangled beyond recognition. Cody jerks under Waxer’s hands, forcing him to push harder on his shoulders.
“It’s alright, Commander,” Waxer babbles. “Sigma’s here, he’s getting your helmet off. It’s okay. Please try and stay still.”
Sigma cuts along the edge of the worst of the damage. “Hold him still, Private.”
Cody screams when Sigma pulls the front of his helmet away. Waxer almost loses his lunch.
Blood runs down the Commander’s face in rivers, so heavy that, at first, Waxer can’t even tell where it’s coming from. The entirety of Cody’s left temple is marred with a ragged, deep cut, forking at the top and following the line of his cheekbone. With the way the skin doubles back over itself and the abundance of grit and blood, Waxer honestly can’t tell whether or not his eye’s been spared.
“Trooper, I need you to hold him down,” Sigma hollers. Waxer jumps, unaware that he’d let Cody go. He bears down on him again, pinning his thrashing Commander to the dirt.
“Sorry, Commander, I know, I know,” he says, grabbing Cody’s wayward hand and clutching it in his own. Cody squeezes so hard Waxer feels his bones grind together.
Sigma’s using butterfly stitches and a huge bacta patch to cover the worst of the wound. When that’s in place, he lifts Cody’s head and wraps a long run of gauze tightly around the whole left side of his face, pulling so hard Cody jerks and yells again. Sigma secures the bandage and throws his bag back over his shoulder. “Okay, Commander,” he says. “We’re going for a walk. Waxer, if you would?” Sigma gesture’s to Cody.
“Yes, sir,” he answers, gathering the Commander in his arms.
When he picks him up, Cody blacks out again.
Sigma puts twenty seven stitches in the Commander’s face. Twenty seven stitches and half a tub of bacta and so much gauze Cody looks like a lopsided mummy. Somehow, the Commander stays conscious for the whole thing, having come around just after Sigma got the bleeding under control. He shakes through each stitch, sweating and white-knuckling the sheets and staring at a spot on the floor just in front of Waxer’s boots.
He never makes a single noise.
At last, Sigma tapes down the last piece of gauze. “Your eye will be fine once the swelling goes down,” he assures Cody. “And somehow, you didn’t even manage a Grade 2 concussion, so I’m putting you off-duty for the rest of today, but you can go ahead and do partial duty tomorrow. After that, come see me and we’ll talk it out.”
Cody scowls. “I don’t–”
“Commander,” Sigma says, voice so stern Waxer jumps to attention. “With all due respect, sir, I just stitched your face closed. A shiny saw your muscles without skin on them. Go the fuck back to your barracks and don’t come out until you’ve had eight hours of sleep and some rations.”
Cody rolls his one good eye. “Medic’s orders?”
“You bet your sorry ass they are.”
Cody huffs, but stands. “Sigma,” he says as he steadies himself and gathers the pieces of his armor Waxer’d taken off. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job, sir.” Sigma gives Cody a lopsided smile and Cody returns it.
Then, the Commander turns to Waxer. “And you, Waxer, thank you, too. You conducted yourself admirably today and you’ve more than earned your paint.”
Waxer short-circuits for a moment. “Thank you, sir,” he manages, and Cody and Sigma grin.
Cody’s halfway out the door before Waxer thinks to say his parting line. “Sir?” Cody pauses. “At least you’ll have a really badass scar.”
Cody and Sigma’s laughter echoes down the halls of the Negotiator.