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Wolffe walked through the dark barracks. He passed rows of bunks filled with his men. His wolfpack. Safe and sound. The troopers slept in a gradient from veteran to shiny. He stepped slower and quieter when he approached the bunks of sleepers who might not be used to his footsteps. The ship’s vents mingled with sighs and muffled snores to create a quiet thrum.
A sniffle cut through the barracks night noises. Wolffe stopped. He backtracked and searched for the source of the sound. Most of the men stretched out with limbs easily hanging off the side of their beds. A pile of blankets shifted on a lower bunk. Wolffe moved to the other side to get a better view. A young vod lay curled up with his eyes screwed shut. He bit down on his fist. The other hand covered the bandage stretching from ear to chin.
Wolffe mentally counted backward to figure out who occupied this bunk. The CT number eventually surfaced. He had seen him in the medical bay last week when checking up on the troopers. A piece of shrapnel had caught the side of his face in their most recent engagement. The medics said he was lucky to be alive. Another inch to the right and well…
Wolffe gathered in a deep breath and sat down on the bunk. The mattress sank under his weight. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. The muscles under the fabric of the blacks coiled tightly, ready to react at a moment's notice.
“It’s just Wolffe. It’s just me,” he whispered.
The blanket stretched taught around his shoulders. Another wet sniff broke free. “S-sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry about that vod‘ika. How’re you holding up?” He didn’t know the man well enough to know how to help. The simple question could gage what he’d need to do for this situation. Wolffe waited patiently for a response.
“It hurts,” he rasped.
“I know. You’ll be okay. I’ll take you to the medics.”
“No, m’fine,” he said. Each word sounded like effort had to go into spitting it out. The gash probably didn’t make talking easy.
Wolffe readjusted his position on the bunk. If the shiny wasn’t willing to go to medical for this, then maybe it was just one of those nights. But he was still hurting. Wolffe started rubbing circles into his brother’s back. Almost every vod’ika loved sharing physical contact with each other.
The younger trooper still had his knuckles jammed in his mouth to dam any audible sobs. Wolffe leaned closer to place a hand on his forearm.
“It’s okay. They’ll sleep through it. Your brothers don’t mind.”
He removed his fist only to start biting his lip, but Wolffe couldn’t fault him for it. At least he wasn’t keening. He didn’t think even the wolfpack could sleep through that.
“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Wolffe whispered.
It took a couple of tries, but the younger soldier pulled himself together enough to speak. "I-I don't want to be named for this," he hiccuped.
"Then don't. You don't like the name they give, you come to me, 'kay?"
He nodded.
Wolffe gave him a few more minutes and squeezed lightly on his shoulder.
“Come with me.” He stood up and waited. The trooper groggily swiped at his face to sort himself out as best he could. Wolffe tried not to scowl, he really did, but the willingness for his men to push past whatever they were going through to appease him never sat right with him. He led his brother out of the barracks with one hand firmly on his back. They entered the community refreshers. The night cycle lighting washed everything in tones of gray. Wolffe turned to face his kih’vod.
The trooper used the corner of his blacks to wipe his nose. Despite trying his best to stand straight in front of the commander, his shoulders trembled and breath hitched.
The day's clean towels lined the racks along the walls. Wolffe grabbed one and soaked it in one of the sinks running across the length of the room. He methodically wrung out the excess water and handed it to the trooper.
“Here. Don’t get your bandage wet.” Wolffe settled against the counter and concentrated on the grout between the tiles of the floor. He left his trooper a little dignity as he cleaned up. The rustling of fabric finally died down and Wolffe looked up. The shiny examined himself in the mirror. His thumb brushed against something on his chin. Dark ink peeked out the corner of the bandage.
"Tattoo?" Wolffe asked.
"I––” He swallowed thickly. “They said it got ruined. It's gonna scar. Just had it done before…" His voice broke.
Wolffe grabbed tightly and pulled him into a hug. The shiny held onto is blacks like he’d be ripped away at any moment. Wolffe supported his weight as the trooper sagged against him. He didn't have a plan, but he wouldn't let his brother mourn alone. He could at least give himself. So many of his men wouldn’t live long enough to get marked like himself.
“I don't want it,” his vod'ika cried into his shoulder.
“I know. I know,” Wolffe said. Oh, how he knew. It hurt like hell and will hurt like hell even after the skin healed and the scar faded some. It would take so many months of not looking in a mirror or deflecting gentle concern. Wolffe didn’t say anything that weighed on his mind. How could he? He'd be a hypocrite to say things got better, and he'd be a disappointment if he was honest. Wolffe didn't like to think of himself like a shiny, but he finally understood why he'd received so many kind words for so many weeks from his general and closest brothers.
“We’re defined by our scars. They’re our story, just like our names and hair and tattoos. It’s who we are," Wolffe said. "K’atini,” he added softly. It’s only pain. Keep your chin up. Keep marching on.
Wolffe pulled away and the man stood straighter, steadier.
“Do you have any brothers you can wake up?”
“They won’t like being woken up.”
“Then tell them I told you to do it. We look out for our own,” Wolffe said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Now get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
The trooper gave a quick salute and left. Wolffe hung his head. “K’atini,” he whispered to the silent fresher.