LMFAO love Chop probably my favorite droid!
Warnings: death, mentions of death
⸻
You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.
Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.
The battle was over.
But it didn’t feel over.
You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.
“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.
You turned—and froze.
It was him.
Waxer.
Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.
But you didn’t look at Boil.
Your eyes went to Waxer.
And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.
“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”
“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.
Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”
You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.
Tears burned your eyes.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.
“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”
Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”
Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.
“I was brave,” she said proudly.
You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”
Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”
“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”
You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.
“She drew me?” you asked softly.
Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”
Your heart cracked in half.
“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”
⸻
They stayed.
Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.
Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.
“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”
You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.
“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.
He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”
“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”
He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”
You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.
“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”
Waxer swallowed.
“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”
“But you did.”
He didn’t answer.
You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”
His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”
You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.
Waxer sat very, very still.
Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”
“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The next morning, they were set to leave.
Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.
Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”
He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”
You reached up, cupped his cheek.
“Promise me something,” you said.
He nodded.
“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”
His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”
You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”
He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.
“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.
You let him go.
But your heart didn’t
⸻
The war kept him away—but never silent.
Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.
He always reached out.
“Hey, starshine.”
It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.
You saved every one of his transmissions.
He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.
Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:
“I miss you.”
You always whispered it back.
⸻
Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.
He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.
“Got something to show you,” he said.
He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.
It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.
“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”
“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”
“Boil let you do this?”
“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”
You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.
He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”
“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”
“Soon.”
⸻
But soon never came.
⸻
Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.
He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.
You stood there. Frozen. Staring.
Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.
“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”
Boil shook his head.
“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”
You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”
“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”
He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.
You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.
Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.
“Did he forget?” she whispered.
You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”
Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”
You didn’t respond.
The helmet said enough.
⸻
You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.
Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:
“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”
But the silence said it all.