Say It With Me Now:

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx

“Ours”

The Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)

⸻

The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.

You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.

“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.

“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”

“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.

Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.

“I miss her.”

No one argued.

⸻

When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.

You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.

Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”

Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”

“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”

Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”

⸻

You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.

“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”

“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.

Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”

“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”

“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”

You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.

“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”

“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.

“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”

Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”

You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”

“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.

“Why?” you challenged.

Silence.

Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”

Your breath caught.

Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”

You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”

“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”

“And how’s that?”

Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”

“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.

“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.

“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”

Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.

Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”

Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”

You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”

Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”

You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”

Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”

You smiled, softening. “Always.”

The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.

You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”

Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”

You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”

“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.

echoed behind you.

Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:

“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”

Hunter stopped walking.

His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.

Possessive.

His jaw flexed.

Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”

Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.

“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”

But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.

“They can howl all they want.”

He caught up to you in two strides.

“We’re the ones she’s running with.”

This definitely isn’t all of them but some of my favorites.

Scp: filoniversepacks

Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?

Thank you for the request!

Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!

⸻

Title: “Just Like the Rest”

Crosshair x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Injury, death, angst

When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.

Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.

“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”

Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”

You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”

His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.

You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”

He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.

You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.

⸻

You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.

“Careful,” he grunted.

You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”

Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.

You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.

It made him interesting.

“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”

Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.

“You ever shut up?”

You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”

And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.

You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.

And then the war ended.

⸻

The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.

Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.

You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.

Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.

You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.

When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.

But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.

“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.

He didn’t answer.

“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”

Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”

His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”

You stiffened.

“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”

He said nothing.

“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”

His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”

He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”

That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.

Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.

You stepped back.

“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”

He didn’t answer. He just looked away.

And this time, you were the one to leave.

⸻

The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.

You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.

But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.

And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.

So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.

And then one day—you saw him again.

You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.

“Crosshair.”

He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.

“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”

“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”

You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.

“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”

“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”

You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”

“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”

You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.

And you were easy to hate.

Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.

Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.

Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.

⸻

Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.

But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.

You were trusting again.

Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.

And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.

“Did you know what they were doing here?”

“Do you regret staying?”

“Why did you help me?”

You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.

And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.

Omega.

They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.

The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:

“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.

You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.

Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.

She’d whisper across the room in the dark.

“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”

Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”

She smiled.

You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.

You started planning.

You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.

The night came fast.

Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.

You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.

That’s when he stopped.

“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”

You shook your head. “I’m not going.”

He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.

“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”

“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”

Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”

You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”

Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”

“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.

And then, quietly:

“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”

“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”

You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.

“Get her out,” you whispered.

And then you ran back toward the alarms.

⸻

The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.

You weren’t broken.

Not yet.

Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.

He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.

“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”

You didn’t speak.

He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.

“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”

You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”

Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.

“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”

“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”

He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.

“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”

Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.

“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”

You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”

That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.

“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”

You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.

“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”

Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.

“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”

As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.

“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”

He tilted his head, amused.

“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”

You smiled through bloodied teeth.

“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”

⸻

They didn’t let you say goodbye.

They didn’t let you scream.

But you didn’t beg.

You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.

And you went quietly.

Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.

⸻

Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:

“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”

He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.

Hunter didn’t say anything.

Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.

And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.

What Remains

Captain Rex x Reader

Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.

⸻

You’d found the distress signal by accident.

A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.

But you weren’t most people.

And the frequency?

It was clone code.

You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.

Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.

And then you heard him.

At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.

“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”

Static.

“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”

More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.

“I don’t wanna die like this…”

Your heart stopped.

You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.

“Rex!”

Then you heard it.

Closer now.

“Please…somebody…I—”

His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.

And finally—you found him.

Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.

His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.

“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”

Your heart shattered.

You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”

His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”

You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”

Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.

“Hurts…”

“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”

You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.

He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.

But now?

Now he was just a man.

Bleeding. Scared. Alone.

You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.

“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”

You closed your eyes.

“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”

⸻

He woke up in pieces.

A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.

And your voice.

He could hear you before he could turn his head.

“I know you’re awake, Rex.”

He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.

“How long?”

“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”

He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”

You closed your book. “Of course I did.”

He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”

There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.

You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.

Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.

But he wasn’t now.

He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.

“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.

You said nothing. Let him go on.

“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”

You reached for his hand.

He didn’t pull away.

“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”

“You’re not.”

He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”

Your breath caught.

“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”

He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”

You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”

You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.

“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

He looked at you then.

Really looked at you.

You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.

His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”

You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.

He was shaking.

It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.

You wrapped your arm around him.

He didn’t say anything after that.

He didn’t need to.

⸻

Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:

“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”

And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.

Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️

“First‑Name Basis”

Kix x Reader

Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.

A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”

Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”

From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”

You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”

Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.

You pointed down the line:

“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.

“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”

“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”

Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.

Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”

“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”

A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”

Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”

Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”

“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.

Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”

⸻

Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”

“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”

His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”

Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”

Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”

You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”

Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”

Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”

⸻

Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”

“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.

Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.

Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”

You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.

Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”

Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”

And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.

- Good soldiers follow orders

Commander Doom x Jedi Reader

Summary: Reader and Commander Doom form a quiet bond during the Clone Wars. After a successful mission, they share a brief but meaningful connection amidst the chaos of war.

Smoke curled through the broken remains of the building as you crouched beside Commander Doom. The twin Jedi Masters and the rest of the squad were a few blocks ahead, sweeping the south sector. You and Doom had been tasked with clearing out this sector—a quieter street, bombed out and ghostly silent.

"You always this calm before a fight?" you asked, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

Doom didn't turn to look at you. His blaster stayed aimed at the alley ahead, but his voice carried that easy drawl of someone unshaken by chaos.

"Calm's better than nervous. Panic gets you shot. Calm gets you home."

Then, with a crooked smirk you *couldn't* see under his helmet, "Besides, I've got a Jedi watching my back. I'd be stupid *not* to feel calm."

You smiled despite yourself, adjusting your grip on your lightsaber. "And here I thought clones were trained not to trust emotion."

"We are," Doom said, slowly rising to his feet, his tone light but his stance shifting into readiness. "Doesn't mean we don't *feel* it. And trust me—if I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have let you take point."

You blinked. "You let me take point?"

He gave a low chuckle, finally glancing at you. "Don't tell General Tiplar I said that."

The air changed. That subtle, pressing *something* that always whispered right before an ambush.

You both felt it.

No words were needed—Doom raised his fist, signaling a halt. You stepped back to back, instinct and training melding into one fluid motion.

Then came the blaster fire.

Four droids dropped from the rooftop above. Doom was already firing, smooth and precise. You ignited your saber, spinning low and cutting through two before they hit the ground.

The brief firefight was over in seconds. Doom kicked aside a still-sparking arm and looked over at you. "Nice form."

You shrugged. "You're not so bad yourself."

He stepped a little closer, his voice low now, more intimate beneath the helmet modulator. "Not often I get a mission like this. Usually, it's orders, droids, chaos. But right now, it's just you and me. Kind of... peaceful. You know?"

You met his gaze—well, the visor of his helmet—and tilted your head. "You finding peace in the middle of a battlefield, Commander?"

"Maybe," Doom said. "Maybe I just like the company."

Your chest fluttered before you could stop it.

The comm crackled: Tiplar calling for a regroup. The moment passed.

Doom rolled his shoulders, relaxed as ever. "Duty calls, General."

You nodded, but as you turned, he added, quietly, "Let's not wait for another mission to get a moment like that."

And Force help you, you kind of hoped the same.

---

The group reconvened outside a crumbling warehouse, the air thick with heat and the sharp scent of blaster residue. Doom gave you a short nod as you joined up with the others, slipping seamlessly back into his role as calm, capable commander. You did the same—lightsaber clipped to your belt, posture controlled, gaze forward.

But the warmth of that moment lingered like a fingerprint on your skin.

Tiplar stood ahead, arms crossed, her sharp eyes watching the regroup. Tiplee was further off, coordinating with a pair of troopers over comms. The twin Masters had always been in sync, but Tiplar—calculated and observant—noticed *everything*.

She stepped closer as you approached, her gaze flicking between you and Doom.

"You two took longer than expected," she said coolly, eyes narrowing just a little.

"Cleared the sector, no resistance after the ambush," Doom replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "Had to be thorough."

"Hm," Tiplar hummed, then turned to you, tilting her head.

"Strange. For someone so thorough, you were walking awfully close."

Your breath caught for a second—not enough for anyone but a Jedi Master to notice.

"I go where the danger is," you replied, lifting your chin slightly. "That's my job."

Tiplar didn't smile. "Danger comes in many forms."

There was a pause. Doom glanced your way, unreadable behind the visor. You could almost *feel* the amused tension in him. Like he knew exactly what Tiplar was implying—and liked it.

But Tiplar wasn't done.

"You may think you're being subtle," she said, quiet now, only for your ears. "But attachment has a way of showing itself in battle. Don't mistake chemistry for connection."

You wanted to defend yourself. To say it was nothing. But you didn't. Because a small, traitorous part of you *wanted* there to be something there. Something real. Something worth hiding.

She stepped back, expression unreadable.

"Let's move. War waits for no one."

As the squad moved out, Doom fell in beside you again, keeping a careful distance this time.

"She said something, didn't she?" he murmured under his breath, voice pitched low.

You exhaled through your nose. "Just Jedi things."

A beat. Then his voice, dry and quietly amused:

"So... should I stop walking so close, or is that part of the Jedi code you're willing to bend?"

You didn't look at him. But your lips curved into a small, dangerous smile.

"Careful, Commander. You keep talking like that, I *will* start walking closer."

He chuckled. "Noted, General."

And with that, you disappeared into the haze of war once more—together, but not quite allowed to be.

---

The mission was a success. Mostly.

The city had been secured, the Separatist hold broken. Casualties were minimal—by war standards. Commander Doom's squadron had fought with unshakable precision, and you... you had done your duty.

Still, something in the air had shifted. Not in the battlefield, but between you and the Jedi Generals.

They called you to a private meeting the evening before departure, just after sundown. The makeshift command center was quiet, walls humming softly with power, light from the twin moons spilling through the cracks in the tarp-covered window.

Tiplar stood with her arms folded, stern, unreadable. Tiplee offered a small nod in greeting, but her expression was tinged with something softer. Regret, maybe.

"You know why you're here," Tiplar began without preamble.

You said nothing. There was no point pretending. You straightened, hands behind your back like a soldier awaiting reprimand.

"Your connection with Commander Doom," Tiplar said, "has not gone unnoticed. Nor has it gone unspoken."

Your throat tightened, but still, you remained silent.

"We are not unfeeling," Tiplee said gently, stepping closer. "We know the bond between comrades in war. But what we saw—what we *felt*—was something more."

"She's right," Tiplar cut in. "We saw it. And so did your squad. It's not just a bond forged in battle. It's attachment. Emotional compromise. And it's a direct violation of the Jedi Code."

You swallowed hard. "Nothing happened."

"It doesn't need to," Tiplar said. "You should know better. The potential alone is enough. You cannot serve two masters—your duty and your heart."

Tiplee stepped in again, her voice softer. "We believe in your strength. In your discipline. This doesn't make you weak, but it does make your path... complicated."

Silence fell between the three of you. Heavy. Inevitable.

Tiplar spoke last.

"This will be the last and only time you reinforce Doom Squadron under our command. You'll return to your assigned sector tomorrow. No formal reprimand will be filed. But this ends here."

You nodded once, jaw tight. "Understood, Master."

As you turned to leave, Tiplee reached out, gently touching your arm.

"You care for him," she said, not as an accusation, but as truth. "And he cares for you. I hope, in another life—one without war, without codes—you both find peace."

You didn't trust your voice, so you nodded.

---

You found Doom later, standing watch at the edge of the encampment. Moonlight painted his armor silver, his helmet tucked under one arm.

"They talked to you," he said. Not a question.

You looked at him, memorizing every line of his face in the dim light. "Yeah."

He nodded, jaw ticking. "I figured. The way Tiplar looked at me during debrief? I've seen droids with more warmth."

You gave a breath of laughter. But it didn't reach your eyes.

"This is the last time," you said. "I won't be reassigned to your missions again."

He was quiet for a long moment. "Orders?"

You nodded. "The Code."

Doom sighed, running a gloved hand over his buzzed hair. "Can't say I'm surprised. Can't say I like it either."

You stepped closer, not touching, but close enough to feel the warmth of him.

"I meant what I said," he murmured. "Back when it was just us. I liked the company."

Your voice was barely a whisper. "So did I."

For a moment, the war vanished. The Code. The ranks. The weight.

It was just two souls caught in the space between duty and desire.

And then you stepped back.

No kiss. No promise. Just understanding.

"Goodbye, Commander."

He gave you a crooked, sad smile—the same one he wore before a mission that might go south.

"Until the next war, General."

You didn't look back.

Because if you did, you might not leave.

And the Jedi weren't allowed to stay where their heart was.

---

*Post - Order 66*

The Outer Rim had gone silent.

Not just from war, but from *everything*.

The Jedi were gone. Hunted. Betrayed. Burned out of history by the very men who once followed them into battle.

But not all of them.

And not *him*.

Commander Doom stood alone in the shade of a half-collapsed homestead, a blaster slung low at his hip, no armor, just worn fatigues and a heavy coat that flapped in the wind. The land was dry and dead, forgotten by the Empire. Which made it perfect for hiding someone who used to be a Jedi.

He'd been waiting for hours, unsure if the coordinates he'd been given were real, or a ghost. Maybe that was all that was left of you now—an echo.

But then, across the cracked dirt, you appeared.

Your robes were shredded, your face gaunt and bruised, a long scar cutting across your cheek and jaw. You limped. You looked... wrecked. Like survival had cost you more than life itself.

But your eyes were still yours.

Doom stared for a long time. Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

"I didn't follow it," he said softly. "The chip. I tore it out before the purge. I—felt something. Something was wrong. I didn't shoot. I *couldn't*."

You blinked, like you were still seeing a dream.

"They all turned on us," you said, your voice hollow. "I watched them kill. Everyone. My friends. My old master. My Padawan..."

Doom's throat worked. He reached out, slow, careful. "I didn't know. I didn't know you had a Padawan."

"I didn't, for long." You looked down. "They never had a chance."

A pause.

"I should've stayed away from you," you added bitterly. "Maybe then... maybe I would've kept the Code. Maybe I wouldn't feel so *ruined*."

Doom stepped closer until he was right in front of you. His voice was low, rough. "The Code didn't save you."

You looked up, finally meeting his eyes.

"The Jedi Code is dead," he continued. "So are the Generals. The Republic. The Order. But we're not. You're not."

You looked like you wanted to believe him.

"I've got land," he said. "Not much. But it's quiet. Safe. I've been building. A place that doesn't need war, or orders, or Codes. Just... life. Peace."

He paused, his voice thick. "It's yours too, if you want it."

You stared at him. For a long time. Then longer still.

And then your shoulders crumpled—like years of weight finally gave way. Doom caught you as you stumbled forward, arms wrapping around you without hesitation.

You didn't speak. You didn't cry. You just *breathed*—his scent, his warmth, the impossible relief of *not being alone*.

And that was enough.o

---

Later, he brought you tea in mismatched mugs. You sat together on the porch of a half-built home, watching the wind move through the dead trees. You didn't speak of the war. Or the dead. Or what came next.

You just sat beside each other, two broken things daring to imagine healing.

---

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.3

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The walk back from the senator’s apartment was quiet.

Fox didn’t speak, and Thorn didn’t expect him to. Not at first.

But the silence felt different now—less like calm, more like something that wanted to crack open.

They turned a corner, stepping into the shadow of the senate tower, boots echoing in near-perfect unison.

“She’s sharp,” Thorn said finally.

Fox’s gaze remained forward. “She’s reckless.”

“Reckless, or brave?”

“Doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t provoke like that.”

Thorn huffed. “What, her teasing you?”

Fox stopped walking. Just for a moment.

“She pushes boundaries.”

“You didn’t seem to mind.”

A pause. Long enough for a speeder to pass by overhead.

Fox turned his head just slightly, just enough to meet Thorn’s eyes.

“I’m not here to indulge senators.”

“No,” Thorn said, quieter now. “You’re here to protect them.”

They walked again.

This time, Thorn’s voice was more level. More careful.

“She’s not like the others.”

Fox said nothing.

“She sees things,” Thorn continued. “Knows when someone’s watching her. Picks up on shifts, silences. She noticed how you walked closer today.”

“I did my job.”

“You changed how you did your job.”

Fox stopped again. Thorn didn’t.

The air between them was a taut wire now, humming beneath the words neither of them would say.

“She’s a risk,” Fox said.

Thorn finally turned. “Or a reason.”

“A reason for what?”

But Thorn didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

They both knew.

Neither man would speak it. Not here. Not now.

But between the edges of their words—beneath the armor, the protocol, the rank—was something alive.

And she was the flame drawing both of them in.

The corridors of the Coruscant Guard base felt colder than usual as Fox and Thorn walked back toward their quarters. The sounds of their footsteps—staccato and measured—echoed around them, a rhythmic reminder of their role, their duty.

And yet, something felt different tonight. Thorn could sense it in the air between them. Fox hadn’t said a word since their conversation on the walk back, and Thorn wasn’t about to press him.

They were just about to turn down the hall leading to their rooms when a trio of figures stepped into view.

Hound, Stone, and Thire.

The trio stood in the shadows of the hallway, their faces hidden beneath their helmets but the casual stance of their posture unmistakable. They were lounging in a way that only soldiers who’d seen too much could manage—relaxed, but always alert.

Hound was the first to speak, his voice muffled but clear through his helmet’s com. “Marshal Commander, Commander Thorn.” He nodded, acknowledging them both. “We were just finishing a sweep of the upper levels.”

Stone smirked, tilting his helmet toward Fox. “So, how’s the senator doing? Keeping you busy?”

Fox narrowed his eyes slightly, but kept his expression neutral. “What’s your point, Stone?”

Stone chuckled under his breath, the amusement evident even through the tone of his voice. “Just saying, it’d be nice if we had the honor of watching over someone a little more… attractive than Orn Free Taa. You know, someone who’s actually worth our time.”

Thorn’s body stiffened, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Fox’s stance didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t give an inch.

But the subtle tension in his jaw was enough to send a ripple of warning through Thorn’s gut. He could feel the charge in the air. He could see Fox’s mind working behind his helmet, weighing his next move.

Thorn opened his mouth to respond, but Fox was faster.

“Get back to your positions,” Fox’s voice was cold, commanding, and unequivocal. “All of you. Now.”

Hound’s helmet tilted slightly, as though he was considering Fox’s words. There was no malice in the moment, but the tone was unmistakable—Fox wasn’t just commanding his subordinates, he was asserting something more.

“Yes, sir,” Hound replied, stepping back and motioning for the others to follow.

Thire, however, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to bite our heads off, Fox. We were just messing with you.”

Fox’s gaze locked onto Thire. It wasn’t threatening, but it was firm. Unyielding.

“I don’t care what you think about her. She’s not your concern,” Fox said, his voice clipped.

Thorn watched the exchange with growing awareness. He didn’t need to hear more to understand what was beneath the surface. Something was brewing between Fox and the senator. Something Fox didn’t want his men—his brothers—to poke at.

Stone shrugged, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright, just making sure you weren’t too distracted, Fox.”

Fox didn’t say another word.

With a final, brief glance at Thorn, he turned on his heel and walked toward the quarters, Thorn following a step behind.

Once they were out of earshot, Thorn allowed himself to breathe. His mind, sharp as ever, raced to piece everything together.

Fox had always been professional, but that reaction—defensive, terse—hadn’t been just about the senator’s safety. There was something else there.

And Thorn wasn’t sure whether he was grateful for it—or jealous of it.

⸻

The air in the briefing chamber was stagnant with politics, but you barely noticed. You’d grown used to breathing it in.

Your eyes, however, had their own agenda.

Fox and Thorn stood across the room—one against the wall like he’d been carved from it, the other with his arms behind his back and a half-step forward, like he was ready to speak but never would unless asked. Both unreadable. Both unnervingly focused.

And both watching you.

Well—not watching. But you knew better than to believe that.

Senator Mon Mothma sat beside you, her voice soft as she leaned in. “You have their full attention, you know.”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

She gave a faint, knowing smile. “Don’t play coy. Half the room’s worried about this assassin on the loose. The other half’s watching how the Coruscant Guard looks at you.”

You gave a half-laugh under your breath. “They’re soldiers. They look like that at everyone.”

“No,” Mon Mothma said gently. “They don’t.”

You glanced up again—Thorn now in quiet conversation with Riyo Chuchi, Fox standing near the entrance with his arms crossed.

Both still facing you.

You cleared your throat. When the briefing was dismissed, senators filtered out in twos and threes, murmuring lowly. You didn’t stand right away. You were thinking. Weighing a dangerous idea.

And then you stood—stepping toward Thorn before Fox.

Thorn looked at you with the faintest raise of his brow. Not surprised. Not expectant either. Just… ready.

“Commander,” you said with a smile. “Do you think we’re being overly paranoid, or is this new threat credible?”

Thorn paused for just a moment too long before answering. “It’s credible enough to keep me awake at night.”

Your lips curled. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“I can be full of surprises,” he said, offering a dry, almost-smile.

Behind you, you heard the soft shift of armor—Fox drawing closer, unprompted.

Interesting.

“Do you think I need a tighter guard detail?” you asked, turning your attention to Fox now, letting your gaze linger a little too long.

Fox looked down at you. His expression was unmoved, but you noticed—he stood closer than usual again.

“You’ll have what’s necessary,” he replied evenly.

“Not the answer I asked for,” you said softly.

“It’s the one that matters.”

You tilted your head, eyes flicking between the two commanders. “Well, if either of you feels like getting some air later, I’m thinking of walking the gardens.”

A beat passed.

Neither took the bait. But something shifted in both of them.

Not a word. Not a twitch.

But the silence held more than anyone else could hear.

You smiled, just a little.

“Gentlemen.”

Then you turned and left—heels clicking, chin high, spine tall.

And behind you, two commanders stood side by side.

Saying nothing.

Feeling everything.

⸻

The gardens behind the Senate building were meant for tranquility—tall hedges, polished stone walkways, subtle lighting filtered through glassy foliage. It smelled of rainwater and something faintly floral, like a memory from somewhere else.

You weren’t sure you expected anyone to actually take your invitation.

You definitely didn’t expect both of them.

Thorn arrived first, boots quiet against the stone, his presence announced only by the change in the air—he always carried some heat with him, something sharp under control.

“You walk alone often?” he asked, keeping pace beside you without being asked to.

“I like fresh air after long hours of stale conversation,” you replied.

“I can understand that.”

You were about to say more when another sound joined your footsteps.

Fox.

He didn’t speak, just joined on your other side, walking as though he’d always been there.

You blinked, looking between them. “Well. Either I’m under heavy surveillance or someone took my suggestion seriously.”

Thorn offered a soft huff of breath. “I like gardens.”

Fox didn’t answer.

You let the silence stretch. Let them settle.

You stopped near a low wall that overlooked the glimmering speeder lanes far below, resting your hands on the cool stone. Neither man flanked you now—both standing a polite distance back, quiet sentinels in crimson armor.

It was ridiculous, how safe they made you feel. And how annoying that safety had a heartbeat.

“I suppose I should feel flattered,” you said lightly. “Two commanders taking time from their endless duties to walk among flowers with a senator who doesn’t even like politics.”

Fox’s voice was low. “I’m assigned to your protection.”

“I’m not.” Thorn looked at you. “I came because I wanted to.”

You glanced sideways at him, then at Fox—whose jaw had tensed the slightest bit.

Interesting.

You turned to face them fully now, hands behind your back like any good statesperson. But your words were not diplomatic.

“You know,” you mused, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think both of you were trying very hard not to look like you wanted to be here.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not about want. It’s about necessity.”

“You always so careful with your words, Commander?”

“I have to be.”

Thorn stepped a fraction closer. “Some of us know how to loosen the screws once in a while.”

You smiled. Not smug—just amused. Alive. Thrilled by what danced beneath their armored restraint.

“I’ll leave you both to your necessary screws and careful words,” you said, taking a few steps back toward the Senate tower. “But thank you—for indulging a restless senator tonight.”

And then you left them there. Both men. Still, silent, unmoving beneath the warm garden lights.

Unspoken things tightening around their throats.

And neither of them ready to say a word about it.

Not yet.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Stitches and Secrets”

Kix x Jedi Reader

Warnings: injury

The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.

“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”

You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”

Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”

“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.

“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”

“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.

Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”

“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”

You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.

Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”

“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.

Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.

“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”

“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.

“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.

Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.

Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”

“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”

“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.

You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”

⸻

Things went sideways by hour three.

The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.

The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.

You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.

“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.

You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.

Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”

“Define lucky,” you rasped.

“Alive.”

“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.

“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”

“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”

He blinked down at you. “What?”

“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”

You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.

“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.

“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”

Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.

“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”

Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.

“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”

“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.

“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”

“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”

“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”

Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”

⸻

You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.

The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.

“You stayed,” you rasped.

He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”

“And…?”

His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”

There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:

“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”

You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.

“Oh yeah. Every word.”

Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.

“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”

You definitely were.

⸻

You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.

“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”

Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”

“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”

“It was the blood loss talking.”

Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”

“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”

They both burst out laughing.

“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”

Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”

You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”

He didn’t deny it.

“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”

You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.

“I did.”

Silence.

Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”

“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”

“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”

Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”

“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”

Ahsoka howled with laughter.

Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.

“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.

You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”

⸻

Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.

“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”

Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”

“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”

Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”

Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”

“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.

Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”

“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”

Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”

“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.

Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”

Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.

“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.

Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”

Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”

Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.

Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”

Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”

Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”

Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”

Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”

Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”

Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”

Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”

Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”

Jesse wheezed.

“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”

Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”

Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”

They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.

Then, quietly, under his breath:

“…War angel in plastoid?”

He smiled. Just a little.