Dogma’s ribs and shoulders and hips are digging into Tup, sharp in a way that makes him think of a bird he once held. Its tiny heart had beaten so frantically against Tup’s palm; its bones had felt so light. Dogma has that same fragility now, in the wake of his return to Kamino. Tup had thought they’d never get him back.
They did, though, and now Dogma is here, curled up on top of him, warm and lax with the first deep, unmedicated sleep he’s had in a long time. He’s not quite ready to rejoin the Torrent vodepile, but he’s close, separated only by Tup and a stray pillow. On the other side of the pillow, Fives snores away, Echo tucked against his chest and equally conked out.
In some awful, twisted way, Tup is thankful he’s not the only Torrent with a brother to rehabilitate. Finding Echo had brought a spark to Fives that Tup had never gotten the chance to see, and they’ve both been invaluable in Tup’s clumsy efforts to reach Dogma. Fives and Echo are older and more mature, more ready to handle this sort of thing (if anyone can ever be anything close to ready).
Tup had only met Echo once before the Citadel, but what he remembers is a headstrong ARC trooper that inspired the sort of hero-worship in him that only Captain Rex could rival. He was an unstoppable force.
He looks good for a trooper days out of the ICU, but that’s a low bar. With his prosthetics off and his blacks hanging loose on washed-out, frostbitten skin, he seems tiny. At least Dogma’s always been skinny, so Tup isn’t so thrown by the additional weight loss. Echo should be big, though. Big and muscular and confident and strong enough to take down the whole Separatist army on his own.
Now, Echo is so weak he needs to wear a soft helmet just to be able to sleep with Fives and Dogma is scared of his own shadow and might be chronically ill for the rest of his life. But they’re alive. Both of them. They’re fucking alive, and that’s so much that it brings tears to Tup’s eyes.
Three weeks ago, when it had become clear that Dogma wouldn’t be talking anytime soon, Tup had downloaded AAC software onto Dogma’s personal ‘pad and communicator. Yesterday, Dogma had finally used it, telling Jesse to go fuck himself when he stole one of Dogma’s brownie bites. Dogma’s still in there. He just needs some time and love.
Tup has time. Tup has love. They’re going to be okay.
Dogma mumbles something incoherent into Tup’s collarbone, shifting on top of him.
“It’s alright, Dee,” Tup responds, sitting up in the blanket-pillow-mattress nest until he can resettle Dogma between his legs and pet his soft fuzz of regrowing hair. They’d shaved his fucking head. Repeatedly. To fuck around in there. “I gotcha.”
Dogma twitches again, half-awake, half-caught in his nightmares.
Echo stirs. Shit.
“‘S goin’ on?” he slurs, reaching clumsily over the pillow.
“Nightmares,” Tup wraps a hand around the back of Dogma’s head, holding him close. Touch helps now more than ever when it comes to grounding him in the present. That is, when he’s not overwhelmed by any contact at all.
Echo hums, nudging Fives’s arm out of the way and grabbing Tup’s hand in his cold, thin one. “It’s okay.”
Tup frowns. “I know. I’m not the one having nightmares.”
Echo smiles, already falling back to sleep. He can’t stay awake for long, not yet. According to Fives, his current record is two hours. “I know. It’s still okay.” He cuddles closer to Fives again, tucking his helmeted head under his chin. Fives nuzzles him, snuffling sleepily into the cloth-covered padding.
Tup sets his chin on Dogma’s head and hums something soft and familiar. Dogma quiets, grabbing a handful of Tup’s blacks and holding on.
“There you go, Dee. Sleep.”