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Up, over, around, and through. Kix kneaded little circles on his patient’s back.
***
It had been a difficult decision for Kix—moving to Alderaan, becoming a masseur. He had worried it was selfish. Worried he was abandoning his cause as a medic. Worried, too, what Jesse and Hardcase and Rex would think—he had been quite close to them all, particularly Jesse. But the three of them seemed to be doing fine, joining the little farming family that Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, Cody, and Wooley had set up, there on Dantooine.
Jesse had laughed his bald head off, when one of the banthas had slurped the grain-treat right out of Kix’s hand—all giant, rubbery lips and slobber. The medical clone had screamed, and then sighed. He just wasn’t a farmer.
…And Tup and Dogma needed him, anyway. Kix wasn’t really sure, anymore, whether he saw those shinies as his vod’ikase—his little brothers—or his ade outright—his sons. What he was sure of was that either possibility pleased him. So long as they were all loved. So long as, when the three of them huddled together in a little cuddle-puddle on their couch (as almost all clones did now), they knew they were home.
…It was Master Kenobi who had set his mind at ease. Though Obi-Wan hadn’t known Kix very well before then, being closer to his own clones of the 212th, he had noticed Kix was pensive, during that visit the medic was paying them on Dantooine. The Jedi had invited him to talk for a moment, quietly in his workshop.
“It’s been a big adjustment for all of us,” Obi-Wan mused over a cup of tea, in his elegant voice. “There were times I worried that leaving my post at the Temple was wrong, too. Even if Master Fisto says we should be freer to settle down on all planets now—to have our families, to teach of the Force and protect the communities closer around us.”
“And… do you, sir?” Kix coughed respectfully, in his rumblier accent.
Obi-Wan had looked him right in the eye, blue irises meeting brown. “I have learned that being present for my family—for Ahsoka and Cody, and now Wooley and your 501st brothers too—is a greater service to both them and myself, than spreading myself thin on a faceless multitude.” He shook his head. “I still will minister to anyone who comes my way. But I won’t prioritize them over my family. Now that the war is over. Now that we have peace.” Obi-Wan stroked his auburn beard, softly. “These six might seem fewer than fifty, a hundred, a thousand—but individual lives still need nurturing, Kix.” His eyes were very wide now. “Don’t Tup and Dogma deserve your time now, less interrupted? Especially after your service in the war—all the lives you’ve already saved.”
“…I can’t deny it’s myself who wants more leisure too, Master Kenobi,” Kix chuckled sheepishly.
But the Jedi had just smiled—a twinkling, Force-bright smile. He shook Kix’s shoulder gently with his palm. “‘Physician, heal thyself,’” he quipped, still in that same fluting voice.
***
Softly, gently, warmly. Kix stroked his patient’s trapezoids like little butterfly-wings.
***
Anakin, his own general, had helped guide his decision, too. When Kix had been asked to oversee the birth of Skywalker’s own children, he had been humbled beyond compare. He was really more of a clone medic, after all—trained primarily to memorize every vessel, nerve, dip, and quirk of one very specific body. The body of Jango Fett. The body that had become millions.
But Kix had still learned his and his brothers’ bodies’ similarities to those of other humans, with time. And then to those of other humanoids—Twi’leks, Theelins, Chagrians—and then to those of other sentients altogether. …He had helped civilians, after all. Sanitized a human factory-worker’s wound. Delivered a baby Togruta, when the refugee woman had gone into labor unexpectedly in their camp. …That Ithorian had been a challenge, but Kix had even saved him, when a stray shot had clipped his snail-like torso. And he had soothed that baby Toydarian’s whooping cough (its poor little inflamed trunk!) And set that Dug woman’s broken leg (or… arm. Whichever it was.)
…Anakin had said they’d have an obstetric droid on hand, too, in case anything went wrong. But Kix would lose his proud lightning scalp-stripes, the day he’d let a droid outperform him on anything! (If this had been part of the bait, Anakin had said nothing, but perhaps had smirked, just slightly.)
And so, Kix had traveled to Naboo, to give the Skywalkers the delivery they had wanted, in their own lake-house home. He had exulted when he had raised those squealing little forms into the light. Two. TWO of them! Kix’s brown eyes had shone, smiling, as he had placed the first, the boy, against his mother’s chest, and the second, the girl, into her father’s arms. “Luke,” they had named them; “Leia.”
…Little miracles. Messier miracles, to be sure, than the baby clones Kix had observed, coming out of their tubes! But miracles nonetheless.
Perhaps miracles on more than one level.
Kix didn’t understand everything about Jedi premonitions and visions. But his copper-brown face had creased, just slightly, in sympathy, as he noticed his former general falter. Anakin had looked into the tiny, squishy little face of Luke, after a few moments—and then hugged the newborn to himself, more swiftly and tightly than expected. His own, paler face had screwed up into the shadows.
“Sir?” Kix almost reached to comfort Anakin, as he detected a briefly-different emotion, than just joy, in the air. He didn’t have to be a Force-sensitive to notice it.
Anakin began to smile, resurfacing with Luke. “…I feel as if this little one just delivered me out of a dark dream,” he murmured, almost cryptically. “Like in another world, somehow… he saved me. But only after much more suffering than this.”
“Better not let your wife hear that,” Kix had quipped, to lighten the mood. Both men did chuckle, finally. Padmé’s labor hadn’t been a particularly difficult one, by human standards, but still, no mammalian delivery was nothing. Kix had learned that much.
…They had gone back into the light, of the delivery room. Even this place was full of Nabooian beauty, its round glass ceiling twined with vines and open to the sun.
Kix had suddenly confided to the Skywalkers, that he wished to retire. Perhaps it was the emotions of the day—this precious ushering-in of life, that they had all just shared—but Kix had actually cried, nearly as much as the parents. Saying he was tired of seeing guts and cuts and death. Saying—in his own words—“If the blood from this blessed morning is the last blood I ever touch, I… I think I’ll be happy.” He had cracked a quiet half-grin, with those little creases that clones got near their eyes, above their dimples. Hoping his words weren’t inappropriate. “…It’s a good case to go out on.”
He needn’t have worried—Padmé had smiled, weak though she still was. “Thank you, Kix,” she had whispered, perhaps for more than one reason. Then she had closed her eyes in much-needed rest, the twins nestled beside her. The medical droid (which Kix had squarely beat) could watch them, while Anakin and his old medic went to an anteroom to talk.
“All doctors and surgeons retire sometime, Kix,” Anakin almost seemed to find the clone’s worries ridiculous. He shook his head, longish brown hair shaking. “It’s wonderful that you’ve dedicated your life to saving others. And you have!” he braced Kix’s shoulders proudly. “You saved my life more than once, and more of your brothers’ lives than I can even count. It’s enough, Kix. There are plenty of other surgeons out there in the galaxy, to continue saving lives. It’s okay for you to quit!”
“Well, I won’t be quittin’, exactly,” the clone managed a small grin again, cocking his head; “I’m quittin’ surgery, yes, quittin’ doctorin’. Our pensions—” he smiled almost bashfully; “when Dogma an’ Tup an’ me put ‘em together, are comfortable enough t’ live on. But I need somethin’ to do. Y’ know, for me! Just part-time. Maybe three days a week. I…” he almost seemed timid again, wondering if it seemed a rather ‘sissified’ idea, for a clone of the GAR; “I’m wantin’ to go into massagin’, actually.”
Anakin raised his eyebrows, but only out of surprise, not unkindness. He asked him why.
And so Kix had told him about Tup. Had told him how the poor thing had had nightmares—perhaps like Anakin’s?—crying to Kix, about doing awful things that he’d never WANT to do, in them. It was only when Palpatine’s trial had happened, and then the mass de-chipping, that they had discovered Tup had been growing a tumor around his secret chip. A freak accident. Giving him haunting foresights into the chip’s contents—Order 66, which they all had been blessedly delivered from, now.
Kix had actually sobbed, begging the forgiveness of his “little buddy,” that he hadn’t detected this sooner. Hadn’t thought to look for something like a tumor. He had kissed his vod’ika’s hand, just so thankful he was safe now, and the tumor was out. Tup had squeezed Kix tight, telling him there was nothing to forgive. And that it had been Kix’s ministering that had probably kept him sane that long!
…It was true, at least partially. Kix, with his knowledge of every nerve-line in their identical bodies, had started to rub Tup’s shoulders and temples, tracing soothing patterns all over his face and torso, to calm him down. Each time he had a nightmare. Or those increasingly severe headaches, that had also come near the end.
The clone medic was always gratified, when he saw his little friend relax. It had pushed something warm within him. As if he had found a new calling.
…He wanted to act on it, now.
Anakin had joined Kix’s smile. He even had some Jedi wisdom to offer (even though Skywalker had never been quite as lauded for his wisdom, as Kenobi had been). “Did you know that the Force flows a lot like that? Through our bodies. I think you may have been tracing more than nerve-lines, Kix.”
“Really, sir?” The clone’s eyes had sparkled, as his eyebrows and smile had both perked up further.
“Who says clones can’t use the Force?” Anakin grinned broader, too.
***
Up, up, up… Kix walked his fingers up his patient’s spine, applying soft pressure, and was gratified when he actually heard a mild, breathy giggle. That wasn’t like this particular patient! He was really getting good! He chuckled himself, but resumed his gentle pressing.
***
Palpatine might have been the mastermind behind the war, but there had been plenty of other evil people, who had terrorized clones on a more group-by-group basis. One of these being Pong Krell. Before everyone had realized he was a fallen Jedi—an incubating Sith—the Besalisk had been in command of Tup’s company, and his bosom-brother Dogma’s. The two shinies had thankfully been transferred to the 501st later, but not without emotional scars.
Tup’s had manifested more as an ever-present nervousness—a slight lack of confidence. (He still did struggle with this, day by day.) Dogma’s had resulted more in an intense dedication to rules. Kix blamed both Krell, and whatever idiot Kaminoan crechemaster Tup and Dogma’s particular batch had had. It seemed the notion of obedience had been drilled into them especially hard, even by clone standards.
Jedi wisdom had thankfully saved the day there, too. Kix—acting almost as a father to the two younger clones, now—had had a flash of (perhaps divine) inspiration. He had pointed Dogma to some of the Jedi’s worship teachings: about how reaching the Force’s loving arms at death, and moving in obedient harmony with Its love during life, was the greatest duty of every being. How there was no greater rule—no greater law—than this.
It had worked! Instead of decrying Dogma’s fixation with rule-following, Kix had simply given him the best tool of all, to line up all the other rules together. If keeping a smaller rule would mean breaking a larger one, a person should break the smaller rule and keep the larger one instead!
It was this wisdom that had finally broken Dogma free from Krell’s influence. Oh, he might still fuss at Tup and Kix, in their new Alderaanian home, whenever they stacked utensils wrong for the table-settings. Or he might tsk and shake his head more severely than most, at the slightest instance of littering or queue-breaking. But he wouldn’t allow orders to make him harm innocent brothers—or himself—ever again.
…Kix’s massages helped too. Even back in their GAR days, it hadn’t been long after Tup told his bosom-brother, and the slightly gruffer young clone had also asked the medic for his services. To ease the pains and tensions. (“Just normal battlefield effects, sir. I mean, as long as it’s not against the books. Correct?”) Kix had chuckled, and had had both shinies firmly under his wings, from then on.
***
Down, down, down… after reaching the nape of his patient’s neck, Kix slowly walked his fingers back down the spine, like a soothing trickle of water. He pressed little ridges into the rib-spaces as he did so; thankful that he was only pinpointing them from memory, now, and not by actually being able to feel them. This particular patient had once been a little malnourished, Kix remembered. But had blessedly filled out now, over these past few months.
***
Tup had shown him a page in his coloring book, this morning. It didn’t hurt for them all to be children again. And the intricate designs, in this handsome book Kix had found for his vod’ika (a homecoming present—he had bought both Tup and Dogma one, when they’d moved here, those months ago), was another thing that helped calm his nerves.
It didn’t hurt the look of their walls, either—Tup was quite an artist with markers, and this page, looking almost like stained glass, wouldn’t seem amiss in a frame. There was a perfect place waiting, just beside the long, thin window, where their kitchen met the sitting-room. They could see the green field and waterfall outside, there, just beside it.
Alderaan was such a beautiful planet. Tranquil and slow. Just like Kix liked things, now. Just like his own carefully-guided movements. …A healer’s hands. He felt humbled, that the Force had given them to him. And of course, had given these precious vod’ikase to him.
“Looks gorgeous, buddy!” he took the coloring-page, and ruffled Tup’s long hair affectionately, to be rewarded with a chuckle and a swat.
“My turn on the table?” Tup almost peeped, eager for his morning rubdown.
“After Dogma’s. You went first yesterday, remember.”
Yesterday had been one of Kix’s three working-days—days when he would crack his knuckles, and administer soothing rubs to their many new Alderaanian friends. Regular customers—mostly humans, but a few Rodians and Arconas, and even one Ithorian. Yes, past experience had indeed come in handy. But whether it was a workday or not, Kix always began it by rubbing down his family members first—those two precious faces he still couldn’t quite decide whether were his younger brothers or his sons. Tup and Dogma.
This morning was the beginning of their long weekend, so there wouldn’t be any customer-patients banging down the door, of course. But still, Kix would make Tup and Dogma wait their turns patiently. Rules, rules, just like the latter always said. He chuckled again, determined to enjoy the tranquil morning—to make it a happy one, for both himself and his boys.
***
Kix stroked his patient’s head lovingly—those two shaved forehead-patches leading to the severe V-shaped haircut down the middle, which was currently pressed into the bench-cushion.
“You’re not done yet!” Dogma prompted—and Kix was once again gratified, to hear the almost-chuckle, in the younger clone’s voice. Progress.
Kix chuckled wholeheartedly back. “No, I’m not,” he agreed. He smoothed Dogma’s calves and heels, then, and the backs of his outstretched arms—the part Dogma always seemed to like best. He lingered a bit on the latter, to make his little bosom-brother happy. Tup always relaxed the most with temple-rubs, but Dogma with triceps-rubs, for some reason.
Now finally done, Kix pressed a large hug into Dogma’s back, as he wrapped both arms around him and hauled him up from the table. Suddenly overwhelmed with thankfulness—that he had these two. That they were all three healing well. That there WAS a life after the war, for them. That everything was so soft and GOOD, now!
Kix was even more gratified when Dogma hugged him back. The younger clone had immediately twisted ‘round in Kix’s chest—to fling both arms around the ex-medic, his father-figure. He pressed him even closer, and both smiled. It felt so warm. Dogma and Kix could count each other’s heartbeats, filling the empty sides of each other’s chests, in a flowing little circle. A stream of love, just as Anakin had said.
Who said clones couldn’t use the Force?