For 6/6 prompt: clones encountering a dog (specifically zee, if u want) for the first time. For 6/9 pick your fave clone/xeno pair and have an hilarlously awkward conversation about the mechanics thereof, because you terrfic humor-smut.

gallusrostromegalus:

brighteyedbadwolf:

6/6

It was always awkward, guarding the clusters of evacuees while they waited for transport. There was never enough room for everyone at once, no matter how many or how few there actually were. It was a weird, perpetual problem most of them had given up trying to figure out, and by now they were resigned to the hurry-up-and-wait of standing around, being stared at, and answering the occasional question (usually with something useless and canned like

“Just be patient, sir/ma’am.”

“We have search teams out looking for others, if they find your son/daughter/mother/father/assorted relatives/friends, you will be able to meet them at the rendezvous point.”

“No you cannot bring your impractically huge, completely useless, incredibly valuable hunk of crap on board we can put THREE FUCKING PEOPLE in the same space your antique piano/vintage speeder/pedigreed racing bantha would take up, sit the fuck down.”)

Getting biffed in the back of the bucket with a rubber ball is more unusual. Getting taken out at the knees by something like 200 kilos of fur and muscle preoccupied with chasing said ball is something close to terrifying.

Especially when said furpile immediately leaves off its pursuit to stand over him, making anxious, high-pitched noises and stuffing its snout into the gaps in his armor and drooling enough that his blacks are becoming uncomfortably damp.

Someone is swearing off in the distance and getting closer in a patter of sprinting feet, and he tries to shove the furpile off of him, to no avail. Not that he can’t move it, it just goes right back to clambering all over him as soon as he tries.

“Shit, SHIT, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, he’s friendly, promise–!” the runner yells, and the furpile looks up with a distinctly happy-sounding whuff.

“Zee! NEIN. Platz!”

OOF. The furpile takes that as some kind of signal to flop down on top of his chest and stomach. Surprisingly neatly, all things considered, its legs all drawn straight and close to its body. Can animals stand at attention? It’s doing that. Trick snorts loudly into the coms, but manages to keep it together publicly.

“DAMMIT ZEE! FUSS!”

OOF. OW. The beast’s leaping push off his stomach nearly caves his plates in, and by the time he rolls to his feet, it’s sitting neatly at the runner’s (a girl! An ALIEN girl, green and tattooed like General Unduli) heel, panting lightly.

“I’m SO sorry, I missed the throw, are you alright?”

Of course he is, is she crazy? Takes more than that to take one of them down. “Yes ma’am,” he says, instead.

“Oh good. He’s friendly, he just… Doesn’t realize how big he is, y’know?”

“Not really, ma’am.”

“Uhm. Right. I. Er. See, I used to let him sit in my lap when he was little, and he thinks he still fits, I guess? He’s only about as smart as a five-year-old, which is plenty smart for a canid, but, y’know, still kinda dumb.”

She probably means Galactic Standard age-to-intellect ratios, not what they think of as a five-year-old, which are plenty smart and what most species considered preteens.

“If you say so, ma’am.”

She looks nervous, embarrassed. Civvies are so fucking weird.

“You uh… You want to pet him?”

What?

They all look at each other awkwardly. Doesn’t look like much to civvies, but you spend enough time in a bucket and you learn to make your bucket and body as expressive as a face, with small movements.

/“Should we? I mean. We’re supposed to keep them happy…”/ Razor mutters hesitantly.

/“You just want to pet the canid,”/ Trio drawls.

/“Kind of a lot, yeah. Took Catch out like he got hit with a damn freighter, it deserves it.”/

/“Fuck you, too.”/

Trio is obviously rolling his eyes, but shifts a little to block Razor from the eyeline of anyone who might yell at him for screwing around on duty. Squint picks up his other flank, and Razor half-crouches down like one of the civvie idiots in a contraband holonovel, holding his hands out to the canid.

The girl makes a short gesture and the thing gallops up to Razor, shoving its big, meaty head under his hands with its pink tongue lolling out. It seems to like having its huge, tall ears ruffled, and when Razor reaches down to roughly drag his hand through the thick fur on its chest, it immediately flops over onto its side, drooling all over his boot with an expression of utter bliss.

Razor’s startled huff of laughter might actually be loud enough to be heard through his helmet, but who could blame him? Apparently if you rub the right part of a canid’s belly, the back legs kick. The girl is smiling too. That’s good. Evacuees don’t smile much. They did a good.

Pets aren’t usually allowed to be evacuated, due to space constraints, but sometimes there’s exceptions for useful animals. This one is clearly good for morale. They’ll make sure it gets on the transport.

AAAAAAAAH OH MY GOD YES ZEE IS BEST BOY. And poor catch!  I;m just going to be rubbing my face in this for an hour or six.