Private Joint Project

[Aren D'Shade]

The workshop was quiet in the way only Aren's spaces ever were.

Not empty—never empty—but deliberately still. The hum of power conduits ran low and steady through the walls, tools sat where they had been left with intention rather than haste, and the faint glow of holoscreens painted the room in cool blues and muted ambers. Every surface had a purpose. Every object was where it was because she had decided it belonged there.

Omen was seated on the reinforced workbench, boots planted on the floor, shoulders loose but not slack. He wasn't restrained. He wasn't prepped. His jacket was still on, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the interfaces at his forearms—old fittings, well-maintained but unmistakably outdated. The kind of cybernetics that still worked because the man attached to them refused to let them fail, not because they were optimal.

Aren stood a few steps away, not touching him yet.

She held a slim datapad in one hand, stylus resting against the edge, eyes moving between readouts and him with the same steady focus she gave any system she intended to understand fully before altering. Diagnostic overlays hovered in the air between them, translucent lines mapping connection points, feedback latency, signal drift. Nothing alarming. Nothing urgent.

Which, in its own way, was the point.

"This isn't surgery," she said at last, tone even, almost casual. "I'm not replacing anything today."

She glanced up at him then, just briefly, as if checking not for consent—she already had that—but for something subtler. Readiness. Mood. Whether he was here because he wanted the work done or because he trusted her to be the one looking at him this closely.

"Think of it as… a proper assessment," she continued, setting the datapad down on the nearby console. "You've been compensating for signal lag in your right hand for a while. You adjust without thinking. It works, but it's not clean." A pause. "And it's been worse since Ilum."

She moved closer, finally entering his space, but stopped short of contact. Close enough that he could feel her presence shift the air, close enough that her shadow fell across his arms and the exposed interfaces. She didn't reach for him yet. Instead, she reached past him, pulling a tray closer with her foot—tools lay out neatly, untouched.

"This is the part where I look," she said. "And you decide if you're staying."

Her eyes met his then—steady, unflinching, unhurried. "No pressure. No pride games. We stop if and when you say stop."

The workshop hummed on around them, patient and waiting, as Aren stood there with the quiet certainty of someone who would not rush what mattered.

And for the first time, the work had not yet begun—but the choice had already been placed between them.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

"So, are you looking at my pics of my perfect body on there or just my arms?" It was the Clone's attempt at an ice breaker as he sat on the bench like a young boy before his examination. "If you wanted the true doctor patient experience, I could get one of those gowns on before we start. You know... for medical reasons." Despite both his and her best efforts to keep his body calm, his fingers couldn't help drum on the metal top of the exam table. Letting someone else take care of him was harder than it was to take care of Aren. Guess he knew what it felt like now to be at the whim of the kindness of another.

Nodding at Aren's statment at this was just a checkup, Omen put up a half smile while trying to show her he was ready for the change. "You don't have to stand there like I'm contagious. I know these need replaced sooner or later. Might as well be sooner and you are the best tech on planet if not the enitire galaxy so you are the best choice to do it. And by the look in his eyes, Aren would tell he believed it. As his Lover approached with her tray of tools, Omen tried to reach his arms out so she could see his arm's internals. They had been cobbled together before he had went to prison and even more so with the raw materials that could be found to repair them when they started to faulter. It was a miracle they were working as well as they were and he didn't deny it when she brought up the issues of signal lag with the wiring, letting out an exhale as he repied like trying to get over a wave with a surfboard on Crait. "Well... Atleast my mind is still sharp, thats a blessing..."

As Aren inched closer, the Clone reached over to grab her hand, gving it a squeeze that was seconds longer than it should hve been. It told her just how much Omen needed this exam. "You can turn the nervous centers off first, I won't feel a thing but I'm ready. But if you want to kiss your patient, maybe it will get better all on its own." In a perfect world, thats all it would take to make his arms like new again. But it looks like they would have to get down and dirty, doing this the hard way. Still, it would be nice to have full control again.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not rise to the bait. Not because she missed it, but because she chose not to reward it.

She set the tray down on the side table with deliberate care, each tool placed where her hand would expect it later, and only then did she turn the display toward him so he could see it properly. The holos shifted at her gesture, resolving into layered schematics of his arms—external plating ghosted semi-transparent, internal architecture highlighted in clean, clinical lines. Actuators, signal relays, power routing, the improvisations he'd made over the years marked in a softer amber overlay.

"These," she said calmly, tapping two points near the elbow joint and wrist, "are the primary bottlenecks. Your response lag isn't coming from the processors themselves. It's the signal degradation along these improvised conduits. They were never meant to handle sustained load."

Her tone wasn't critical. It was factual. If anything, there was a quiet respect threaded through it.

"You kept them functioning far longer than they should have," she added. "But they're compensating now. That's why you feel the delay most when you're tired or when you're focused on fine motor skills. Your brain sends the command. The arm hesitates while the signal reroutes."

She stepped closer, not into his space yet, just near enough that he could see the fine detail on the projection reflected faintly across her features.

"What I'm proposing isn't replacement today," she continued. "Not yet. This is assessment and stabilization. I want clean diagnostics without pain interference or defensive reflexes skewing the data."

Her gaze flicked briefly to his drumming fingers before returning to his face, steady and unflinching.

"I will disengage the sensory feedback first," she said, anticipating his concern. "Not fully offline. You'll still have pressure awareness, but no sharp input. Then I'll isolate each subsystem in sequence. Power. Signal. Structural integrity. Nothing irreversible."

When he reached for her hand, she didn't pull away. Her fingers closed around his, grounding, solid, and she let the contact linger exactly as long as he needed before gently easing her hand free so she could rest it against his forearm instead.

"I'm not here to take control from you," Aren said quietly. "I'm here to give it back. At your pace." Her eyes searched his, not for permission, but for readiness. "If at any point you want me to stop, we stop," she finished. "If you have questions, ask them now. If you have reservations, say them."

Then, softer, without teasing: "And no gowns. This is a workshop, not a clinic. You're not my patient. You're my partner. And this is something we're doing together."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen raised an eyebrow as Aren explained all she was going to do. So it was the conduits that were the problem... That made sense; the old wiring there would be the problem. "Aka, you are surprised my arm hasn't caught on fire yet. I understand why you want to look at them since you are in them all the time." As usual, her plan made sense. Try to see how much damage there was overall, and see if this set needed to be fully replaced or not.

Giving her the Omen smile as he held her hand, he relished the contact between skin while he could. "I'll be fine. Stop selling yourself short. I know you will do a good job." His hand came forward to playfully tustle her hair. "Now stop telling me I'll be fine and actually make me fine."

The Clone rolled his eyes as she started to get to work, batting away his request for a gown. It was weird, not being able to feel her working inside his arm as he glanced at her work. He admitted to himself that he always felt more comfortable working on his armsthan let anyone else handle him but with Aren... he knew this would be a labor of love. "Yeah, thats my fault for wanting to distract you with something you like seeing. How much is this going to cost me by the way? Will just kisses suffice or do you need some other form of payment."

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't look up right away when he said it. She was already working, fingers moving with practiced precision as the first diagnostic interface slid into place along the seam of his forearm. The soft hum of the equipment filled the space between them, steady and controlled, like her breathing.

"Just kisses and dinners now and then," she said at last, tone even, unembellished, as if she were confirming a maintenance schedule rather than setting terms. "I'll take care of the rest."

She glanced up at him then, briefly, meeting his eyes so he knew she meant it. Not indulgence. Not charity. Choice.

"This isn't a transaction," she continued, returning her focus to the readouts as segmented overlays bloomed across the holo. "You're not paying me to do this. I'm doing it because it needs doing, and because it's you."

Her thumb pressed lightly against his arm, anchoring him as she isolated the first subsystem. The numbers stabilized almost immediately under her touch.

"You hold the fort down while I'm gone," Aren added, quieter now. "That's all I need from you. Stay upright. Don't overextend. And don't try to 'fix' anything I've already tagged."

A pause, then the faintest hint of dry humor slipped through.

"And if you're still when I tell you to be still," she said, "I might even accept interest payments."

She adjusted a setting, and the diagnostic tone softened.

"All right," Aren finished calmly. "We're live. Let me know if anything feels off. Otherwise, breathe."

Her hand stayed steady on his arm. So did she.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen couldn't help but think about how fast she worked as she sped through the process. She certainly was an artist at her craft. "Kisses and dinners for the rest of your life, then. I can agree to that." He knew this wasn't a transaction, that she wanted to help him. The Clone was doing his usual teasing to make the time go by.

"Wow, you really do love me, don't you? You only say soppy stuff like that when you want care for me." The tips of his mouth moved upward as he watched her work. Thank god he couldn't feel her pulling out and putting in every part. He would be in for a lot of hurting right now if those sensors were on. "Don't worry, I'm not going to do any of my own work. I know you don't want me to show you up." When she looked up to scold him, she would see in his eyes that he understood the task she had given him and that he would do his best to fulfill it.

As she finished up and closed the interals, he would slowly play with his fingers and roll his wrist, making sure everything felt alright. And it did, no latency issues or the components making his hand twitch. She had done the One's work, and he thanked her by pulling her in by the back of her head, bringing her in for a hot and heavy kiss. The Clone only pulled away when his face started to turn blue from the lack of oxygen. "That enough of a first payment for you?" Because it certainly was for him.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't pull away when he kissed her.

She let it happen, one hand coming up automatically to brace against his shoulder, the other still resting at his forearm as if her body hadn't quite caught up with the fact that the work was done. The kiss was warm, grounding, familiar in the way that made her exhale slowly through her nose when it finally broke, not flustered so much as… reset.

She rested her forehead briefly against his, eyes half-lidded, voice low and steady when she spoke.

"That's sufficient for today," she said, dry as ever. Then, after a beat, "Interest acknowledged."

Her thumb brushed once over the seam she'd just closed, a quiet, almost unconscious check. Everything was stable. Responsive. Exactly where it should be.

"You're clean," Aren continued, pulling back just enough to look at him properly now. There was satisfaction there, muted but unmistakable. "Signal latency's gone. Conduits are holding. If something starts to feel off later, you tell me. You don't troubleshoot. You don't compensate. You tell me."

She paused, eyes narrowing a fraction as she added, "And don't test the limits just because it feels good to have full response again."

Then her mouth softened, just slightly, betraying her.

"And yes," she went on, quieter, "I do care. That's not a special occasion thing. That's just…baseline."

She straightened, already reaching for a cloth to wipe her hands, posture settling back into its familiar composure—but before stepping away, she leaned in and pressed a brief, deliberate kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Payment accepted," Aren said calmly. "Now sit still for five more minutes so I can finish logging this. Then you can show me how impressed you are with your fingers."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen enjoyed the contact before just smirking and shaking his head as she pulled away. "I hear your interest in your voice like always." He knew by her actions that she really did care for him, but they really were opposites in every face of the credit, weren't they? He only hoped that wouldn't be enough to dissuade him from having a future with him.

The Clone smiled up at her as she gave the final results of her operations. It seemed like everything had gone well, like he thought it would. He held his new hands up in his defence as the tech stared him down like a beast looking at her next meal if their prey didn't behave. "Fine, Miss Mechanical Wondermaker, I'll talk to you if I need you for anything. What if I just want to have you close, though? Do I need to get a number for that?"

The kiss that impacted the corner of his mouth did surprise him. Usually, he was the one imposing his affections and kisses on her. She really must be starting to care for him if she is feeling this affectionate. The sex joke floored him even more so, though he forced himself to sit still. "Huh... You saying you care for me... Kissing me without me asking... And even saying sex jokes. You aren't the woman I first met." The broad smile on Omen's face told Aren he was only joking. "You are even better than I could have hoped. I must have brushed off on you somehow."

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not rise to the bait immediately.

She finished wiping her hands first, methodical as always, folding the cloth and setting it aside with care before she looked back at him. When she did, it was with that steady, assessing calm that never quite left her, even now. The smirk, the teasing, the way he tried to turn her words inside out to see what might fall loose from them did not irritate her. If anything, it grounded her.

"You always hear what you want to hear," she said evenly. Not unkind. Just accurate.

She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel her presence without her touching him yet. Her gaze flicked briefly to his hands, already steadier than they had been before, then returned to his face.

"And no," Aren continued, "you do not need a number. You already have access." She paused, deliberately. "You just do not need to disguise wanting closeness as a technical request."

When he commented on her changing, she tilted her head slightly, considering him the way she did a problem that refused to be simple but remained worth solving.

"I did not change," she said after a moment. "I adapted." Her eyes stayed on his, unflinching. "You did not rub off on me. You proved consistency. That tends to adjust my tolerance thresholds."

Her tone softened, not sentimental, but real.

"You listen. You wait until I ask. You trust me with things that matter." Another pause. "That earns proximity."

She reached out then, fingers briefly catching the front of his shirt, just enough to anchor him without pulling him closer.

"And do not get used to the jokes," Aren added dryly. "You will get one every few months. I do not want to spoil you."

The faint curve at the corner of her mouth was unmistakable.

Then she released him and turned back toward her console.

"Five minutes," she said. "Sit still. Let the pathways settle. Enjoy the fact that your arms work properly." A glance over her shoulder told him she meant the next part. "I will still be here when you are done testing them."

He moved before thinking, and she stopped him without words.

Her hand closed around his wrist, firm but careful, grounding him where he sat. Not a warning. Guidance.

"Not yet," she said quietly.

She watched the clock count down in her peripheral vision while he remained still, compliant in a way that told her he understood exactly why she was asking. The five minutes were not about patience. They were about trust in the work she had done.

When the time passed, she nodded once.

"Now."

She stepped back into his space and took his hand in hers without ceremony. She did not test strength or range. She did not ask him to perform. It was just contact. Skin against skin, slow and deliberate, letting him feel the difference where it mattered most. Feedback clean. Response precise. No hesitation between thought and motion.

Her thumb brushed across his fingers once.

That was enough.

Satisfied, Aren released his hand and turned back to the console, already powering systems down.

"We will do the rest later," she murmured.

She did not look back as the lights dimmed, and neither of them rushed to fill the quiet that settled in after.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen gave her a raised eyebrow after she fired back that said that he actually had heard what she meant. "No, I hear what you mean through your monotone voice. But fine, you can deny it till you ask me to help later." Her denying any verbal form of attraction to him was her way. His sniffing out the truth was his.

As she came close and confirmed he didn't need a ticket to receive her attention, he found it hard not to draw her close. Still, he had to follow the doctor's orders to the letter if he didn't want to be swatted at.

"No, I think you did change" That cocky smile of his was an everpresent factor. "Not by much but I do think I helped smooth your edges out abit if you'll allow me to say. Made you mood alittle bit better, making you alittle bit more kinder towards others. Atleast thats what I choose to believe anyway. Or atleast what he wanted to believe anyways.

At her attempt to dissaude him from expecting anything more, Omen just gave that scheming smile that let her know that he planned to make those jokes happen more than just once. "If you say so..." The scrunching up of his face told her that five minutes would be alot to ask while being in her presence. Still he managaged to sit still long enough to give the everything in his arms time to get used to each other.

Giving her hand a squeeze, it told her that she didn't need to think twice about her work. That she had done a good job. Omen didn't say anything as he came up from behind her, listening to her talk to herself. "Is that meaning you will test out my fingers later or is there more testing hoops that I need to leap through?" Ones knows he didn't want to sit still for five seconds, let alone five minutes. Besides, he had chores around the house and a woman to please. Those taskes couldn't wait anyone.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not turn immediately when he came up behind her.

She heard him, of course. She always did. The shift in his weight, the change in the room's rhythm when he moved closer. She finished the last diagnostic tap on the console, let the system power down entirely, and only then did she straighten and tilt her head just enough to acknowledge him.

"You hear tone," she said calmly. "Not denial."

When she turned, it was slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable but not closed. His raised eyebrow, his certainty, the way he insisted on assigning himself credit for changes she had chosen to make: she did not correct him outright. She rarely did when it was not necessary.

"You did not smooth my edges," Aren continued, voice even. "You learned how not to cut yourself on them." A pause, then a quiet addition. "That is different."

She reached back then, not to stop him, but to rest her hand lightly against his forearm, fingers still, grounding rather than possessive.

"And I am not kinder," she went on. "I am more selective. You are included in that selection." That was as close as she came to conceding his point, and she hoped he would recognize it for what it was.

At his scheming smile, her mouth curved faintly in response, not indulgent, but aware.

"Plan all you like," she said. "You still follow instructions."

When he squeezed her hand, she did not pull away. She accepted it, a quiet acknowledgment of trust exchanged rather than spoken. His question earned him a brief look over her shoulder, assessing, precise.

"Later," Aren said. "Not now."

She turned fully then and stepped into his space, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her without her pressing into him. One hand came up to rest against his chest, firm but unhurried, keeping him where he was.

"There are no hoops," she added quietly. "There is recovery. And there is restraint. You did well with both." Her thumb brushed once against the fabric of his shirt, a slight, intentional touch.

"Chores will still exist in an hour," Aren said. "So will I." Then she stepped past him, already moving toward the doorway, voice carrying back without turning. "Give it time. We will test more later."

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen just shook his head as she stood in his arms. Aren would never change, would she? Then again, that's why he loved her. She was stubborn to the last and strong of will. Even he could turn her opinion a lot of the time and it was clear that wasn't going to stop now. "Whatever you say partner of mine." He didn't deny that Aren might also be right. He did dance around trying to please her a lot. The Clone guessed he should be glad she did choose him to be in her future.

The Clone said, "Yes, Mother. Do I get to watch the bolo ball game on the display at least or do I have to have to get my bubble wrap clothes on first?" in a mock petulant tone that sounded like he was an actual young teenager like his age suggested rather than the grown man he actually was. He didn't like slowing down, otherwise he might have to use idle hands might have to strangle someone just to confirm they still worked. Ones help any child they had together. Still, he quieted down when she turned and put her hand on his chest, making him pause as she explained that he needed to take it slow. He reluctantly agreed of course, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Omen certainly did like the view he saw though as she walked back up the stairs to the living area out of the basement. It was a view he wanted to stick around for and so he would follow doctors' orders even if it meant not being productive. If lazing around while he watched the game was the order of the day, then so be it. As he trailed after her up the stairs, the Clone thought he was going to end up become a couch potato. Oh, what was the universe coming too?

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren paused halfway up the stairs.

Not abruptly. Not sharply. Just enough that he'd notice.

She glanced back over her shoulder at him, expression unreadable in that familiar way that meant she was listening even when she looked like she wasn't. The mock petulance, the joking tone, the restless edge beneath it—all of it landed. She didn't scold it. She didn't indulge it either.

"You can watch the game," she said evenly. "And no, you don't need bubble wrap. Try not to dramatize basic restraint."

She resumed climbing, unhurried, trusting him to follow without needing to check again. By the time she reached the living area, she'd already shed the clinical focus, moving with the ease of someone back on familiar ground. She lowered the lights with a gesture, adjusted the display with a flick of her wrist, and let the boloball feed fill the room in muted color and sound.

Only then did she sit—one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out along the couch—and finally look at him properly.

"You're not slowing down," Aren said. "You're recalibrating. There's a difference." Her gaze held his for a moment longer than necessary, steady, grounding. "You don't need to prove your hands work by keeping busy. They'll still be there in an hour. So will your patience."

She leaned back, attention shifting to the screen, but her presence stayed tuned to him.

"And if you strangle anyone," she added dryly, "I will charge you for the repairs." A beat. Then, quieter—not softened, but real: "Sit. Rest. That's the order."

The game rolled on. The room settled. And for once, nothing else demanded his hands.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen almost ran into the back of her as Aren stopped; the stairs' handrail was the only thing stopping him from tumbling back on his rear. Letting out a breath, he decided, like in most things, he had probably gone overboard with his jokes. It was just his way of telling Aren he didn't need to be babied in a way she would listen to. "Fine, I'll leave acting to the actual actors. Besides, I think I'm more in danger of injuring myself by tumbling back down the stairs than any other way. The sheepish smile Aren saw was him telling her sorry. Hopefully, it would be enough to prevent her from stopping again and making him fall on his head.

When they reached the living room, and Aren dimmed the lights with just their hand, the Clone wondered what other features she had added to their home that he didn't know about. He accepted her words as he sat down with her, knowing she was right. His only answer to her statement was "Will your lap still be here in an hour?" Without waiting for an answer, he lay down and rested his head on her thighs, his body relaxing as his eyes focused on the game. Being near her was always the most relaxing thing Omen could do, so she didn't need to worry.

Thankfully for her, the jitters that Omen helped slowly calmed down as the game went on. Being next to her was the only place he could relax like this, the only place he felt like he was home. And besides, he knew Aren and her cold heart wasn't bluffing about making him pay for repairs, and he hated wasting money. At her line of "That's an order.", he turned to look up at her, flashing a salute before leaning up to embrace her lips, letting her know that he wasn't going to strangle anyone today. Turning to the TV, he shouted as the line ref penalized the Mando Team for a tit tat offsides call. "Oh come on ref, you need to get my partner to make you bionanic eyes if you think thats a good call!" Despite his protests as the game got back on underway, it was clear the Clone was back to normal and very very happy.

Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren caught him before the stairs could claim their victory.

Not with force. Just timing.

Her hand came out, steady on his forearm, anchoring him long enough for his balance to catch up with his mouth. She didn't scold him. Didn't sigh. She gave him a look that acknowledged both the joke and the near miss, then released him once she was sure he was upright again.

"I am not interested in adding concussions to your recovery plan," she said evenly. The sheepish smile did what it was meant to do. She let it pass without comment and continued up the last few steps, trusting him to follow without theatrics this time.

When they reached the living room, she dimmed the lights with a quiet gesture, the room settling into a low, comfortable glow that softened the edges of everything it touched. She sat, composed as ever, but didn't resist when he immediately claimed her lap as if it had always been his.

"Yes," she answered belatedly, calm and confident. "It will."

She rested a hand against his shoulder, not restraining him, not hovering, simply there. The game played on, noise filling the space without demanding anything from either of them. She felt the tension bleed out of him in stages, the way it always did when he finally let himself be still. His breathing evened. His weight settled. The familiar sense of him being home, rather than just present, returned.

When he saluted at her order, she rolled her eyes just enough to be felt rather than seen. She didn't pull away when he kissed her, didn't stiffen, didn't redirect. She accepted it for what it was, a promise kept without words.

At his outburst at the ref, one corner of her mouth lifted.

"If I start upgrading officials mid-game," she said dryly, "it becomes a conflict of interest."

Her fingers idly traced a slow, grounding pattern against his arm, a silent confirmation that she meant what she'd said earlier. He was fine. He was safe. He was not required to do anything except stay where he was.

Aren leaned back, eyes on the screen, perfectly content to let the rest of the evening unfold exactly as it was.

Sergeant Omen