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Tcw Kix - Blog Posts
May The 4th Be With You!
Lil late to the party, but....
Popped onto Tumblr and realized what day it was. Then proceeded to speed run a quick meme.
-------------------------------
Where’s Hardcase?
Revenge of the Sixth (PT.2)
May the Fourth Be With You (PT.3)
I posted a new fic!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/65094643
It’s an ongoing series containing short (and I mean short) works of my clone OCs. Give it a read!
headcanon that once when the 501st was on coruscant between missions a group consisting of echo fives jesse kix and rex all decided that they were gonna play as spies and figure out where the fuck skywalker was going every fucking night
like, they have a whole plan: we gotta be stealth, we are speed, we are the shadows. they have to wait outside the jedi temple for hours on end because anakin's schedule is whack and he's really unpredictable and they all have to station themselves at five different exits because anakin always changes it up and they still lose him for the first week
that is, until one night. The group is arguing outside the temple about who is gonna guard what exit (fives really wants to go to the front so he can talk to the hot jedi he saw earlier) when suddenly the window above them slowly slides open and all five of these fully armored clones just swan dive behind garbage cans as anakin dramatic skywalker scales the building from one hundred feet up
they all just look at each other like. wow. it was that easy.
and the thing is is that anakin is so focused on making sure no one is able to see him from a distance that he doesnt even clock in the five clones in bright blue literally five feet away
and they're off, with rex leading the boys on their play away adventure
and it gets really tricky. Anakin walks the entire way ("honestly we should just quit now" -fives) and he's constantly doing his jedi jump tricks and launching himself onto fifty foot buildings so the clones have to make a human ladder and send kix up on comm so he can continue to track (kix is actually the best climber out of all of them due to the fact he always has to scale fucking cliffs to get to skywalker whenever he does something stupid) and they eventually realize exactly where anakin is beelining to. the senate building.
and then anakin just waltzs into the senate like its nothing and all the clones stop and are like "can we do that?" and they agree to just send kix in again to follow like hes on duty and then the rest of them climb using the grappling hooks fives convieniently forgot he had
after kix manages to track anakin to like the millionth floor the clones all meet on the landing deck to this random senator's room (kix had to jump out a window two hallways down and crawl along the window ledges) and then theyre like well whats the worst that happens we get fired?
so they argue and eventually it gets physical to the poitn where jesse and echo straight up launch fives through the window into the room where anakin is sitting watching padme cook on the counter
fives looks up like "heeeey guys whatchu makin?" and anakin immediately force throws him back out
but then the other clones bring it up to just go in so they walk in and as echo is writing down the details of the trip in his notebook jesse is like "are you fucking kidding me skywalker" and rex is shifting on his feet because yeah he knew but he didn't know that was what anakin was doing every night
and then padme sees kix and is like "oh hey kix! are you staying again tonight?"
and thats how kix manipulated his friends into basically breaking and entering when they could have just knocked
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.
“Armor for the Skin”
501st x Reader
The overhead lumens slam on like artillery. Groans ripple through the barracks, but you roll out of your bunk already gathering your contraband caddy—a slim duraplast kit labeled “Mk‑III MedPatch”
Fives, half‑dressed and wholly curious, nods at the kit. “Alright, mystery box—you packing bacta or blasters in there?”
You flick the latch. Bottles, tubes, and sachets unfold like a miniature armory—just shinier and pastel‑colored.
“Moisturizer,” you say, dotting cream onto your cheeks. “SPF 50. Sun in space still finds a way.”
Fives blinks. “You’re lotion‑plating your face before breakfast?”
You smile. “Armor for the skin.”
As you pat the sunscreen in, Fives watches, fascinated. “How long does all that take? We get, like, sixty seconds to hit the refresher.”
“Practice,” you reply, capping the tube. “And a bit of multitasking.”
Across the aisle, Jesse mutters, “She’s waxing her cheeks?”—which earns him a smack from Kix.
The medic tilts his head, curious. “Actually, hydrating the epidermis reduces micro‑tears that form when helmets chafe. Fewer micro‑tears, fewer infections.”
Fives groans. “Kix, not you too!”
Tup perks up. “Will it stop my forehead from peeling on desert drops?”
“Only if you commit,” you reply, tossing him a travel‑size tube.
Tup bobbles it. “Commit to… face goop?”
“Commit to self‑care, shiny,” Jesse teases, but he secretly dabs a fingertip of cream on the scar running over his temple when he thinks no one’s watching.
Hardcase flips down from the top bunk, dangling upside‑down. “What about night routine? Can we weaponize it?”
You laugh. “Weaponize hydration?”
You begin to rattle off the list for your routines while shoving items back into the caddy.
Jesse whistles. “That’s more steps than disassembling a DC‑17.”
“It’s upkeep,” you say, snapping the kit shut. “Blasters, armor, skin. Treat them right and they won’t fail mid‑mission.”
Kix, ever the medic, hums thoughtfully. “Prevention over cure—sound protocol.”
Rex marches past the doorway, barking for PT. He notices the cluster around your bunk, eyes the lotions, then decides he’s not paid enough to investigate at 0500. “Five minutes to muster. Whatever you’re doing—do it faster.”
The squad scrambles. You close your caddy with a click, satisfied. Step one: curiosity planted.
As you pass Fives he murmurs, “Armor for the skin, huh?”
“Exactly, vod,” you grin, tapping his chest plate. “And just like yours—it’s personal issue.”
He barks a laugh, then jogs after the others—already plotting how to requisition micellar water under “optical clarity supplies.”
Curiosity piqued, routine revealed. Now the real fun begins.
⸻
An hour later, after PT and standard mess rations, the 501st files toward the strategy room. You’re meant to present local intel, but you duck into the refresher first to rinse sweat and slap on a leave‑in hair mask.
Inside, Tup stares at his reflection, damp curls drooping. “How tight is the towel supposed to be?”
“Snug, not suffocating.” You demonstrate the twist‑and‑tuck, shaping his towel into a tidy turban. He looks like a spa holo‑ad—if spa ads featured wide‑eyed clone troopers in duty blacks.
Rex storms in mid‑lesson. The captain’s expression cycles through confusion, exasperation, acceptance in under a second. “Explain.”
“Deep‑conditioning,” you answer. “Helmet hair’s a war crime.”
Dogma, arms folded behind Rex, scowls. “Regulation headgear only.”
You pat the towel. “Technically, still a head covering.”
Hardcase bursts from a stall, face covered in neon‑green clay. “I CAN’T MOVE MY MOUTH! THIS STUFF SETS LIKE DURASTEEL!”
Kix swoops in with a damp cloth. “That’s the detox mask, vod. Rinse at four minutes, not forty.”
Fives leans in the doorway, filming everything. “Historical documentation, Rex. Posterity.”
Rex pinches the bridge of his nose. “You have two minutes to look like soldiers before General Skywalker arrives.”
Tup whispers, “Uh… do I rinse or…?”
You yank the towel free with a flourish; his curls bounce, glossy. “Ready for battle,” you declare.
Rex sighs. “One minute forty‑five.”
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along. You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
⸻
The 501st rolls in after an endless maintenance drill, expecting lights‑out. Instead, you’ve transformed the common room into a makeshift spa: footlockers draped in clean towels, maintenance lamps angled like vanity lights, and rows of mysterious packets labeled hydrating, brightening, volcanic detox…
Rex stops dead in the doorway, helmet under his arm.
“Vod, why does it smell like a med‑bay and a flower‑shop had a firefight?”
You beam. “Team‑building. Captain’s orders.”
Rex narrows his eyes—he definitely did not give those orders—but one look at the exhausted squad convinces him to play along.
You pass out microfiber headbands—Tup’s bun peeks through adorably—then cue soft lo‑fi on a datapad.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Fives foams cleanser like he’s icing a ration cake, flicks bubbles at Jesse.
Hardcase grabs an industrial solvent bottle. You snatch it away. “Wrong kind of chemical peel, blaster‑brain.”
Kix demonstrates gentle circular motions; the squad copies, mumbling mock mantras.
Faces disappear beneath colors and cartoons.
Jesse paints Dogma’s clay mask into perfect camo stripes; Dogma tries to protest, fails, secretly loves it.
Rex sighs as you smooth the sheet onto his face. “If this vid leaks, I’m demoting everyone.”
Tup giggles when the nerf‑printed mask squeaks. Fives records the sound bite for future memes.
Everyone reclines on mesh webbing strung between crates.
The timer pings. Masks come off—revealing eight glowing, ridiculously refreshed faces.
Hardcase flexes. “Feel like I could head‑butt a super tactical droid and leave an imprint.”
Fives snaps a holo of Rex’s newfound radiance. “Captain, you’re shining.”
Rex grumbles, but his skin does glow under the fluorescents. “Get some rack time, troopers. 0600 briefing. And… keep the extra packets. Field supply, understood?”
A chorus of cheerful “Yes, sir!”
You watch them file out, each tucking a sheet‑mask packet into utility belts like contraband. Mission accomplished: the 501st is combat‑ready—and complexion‑ready—for whatever tomorrow throws at them.
⸻
Obi‑Wan strolls through the hangar, robe billowing. He pauses mid‑conversation with Cody, eyes widening at the radiant 501st lined up for deployment.
“My word, gentlemen, you’re positively effulgent.”
Jesse grins—dazzling. “Training and discipline, General.”
Cody side‑eyes Rex. “Whatever you’re doing, send the regimen to the 212th.”
Anakin trots up, spying a stash of leftover masks tucked behind Rex’s pauldron. He plucks one. “Charcoal detox? Padmé swears by these.” He pockets it with a conspiratorial wink.
Rex mutters, “Necessary field supplies, General.”
You walk by, sling a go‑cup of caf into Rex’s free hand. “Don’t forget SPF,” you remind, tapping his helmet.
Rex looked over to Cody, Deadpan “Non‑negotiable, apparently.”
⸻
Blaster fire and powdered sand fill the air. Jesse dives behind a ridge. “Double‑cleanse tonight—this dust is murder on my pores!”
Fives snorts through the comms. “Copy, gorgeous. Bring the aloe.”
Hardcase detonates a bunker, cheers, then yelps, “Mask first, explosions later—got it!”
Rex stands, sand sifting off armor, skin protected under a sheer layer of sunscreen that miraculously survived the firefight. He shakes his head but can’t hide the small smile.
“Alright, 501st,” he calls. “Let’s finish this op—tonight we rehydrate, tomorrow we conquer.”
You chuckle, loading a fresh power‑cell. The war may rage on, but for this legion, victory now comes with a healthy glow.
⸻
A/N
This was a request, however I accidentally deleted the request in my inbox.
501st Material List 💙🦋🛋️🥶
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Overall
- “The Warmth Between Wars”🏡
- “Your What?!"🏡
- “Armour for the Skin” 🏡
- “Hearts of the 501st” ❤️
Arc Trooper Fives
- x bounty hunter reader pt.1❤️
- x bounty hunter reader pt.2 ❤️
- x reader “This Life”❤️
- x reader “Name First, Then Trouble”🌶️
- x Sith!Reader “The Worst Luck”❤️
Captain Rex
- x Jedi Reader❤️
- x Villager Reader ❤️
- x reader “what remains”❤️
- x Sith Assassin Reader “only one target”❤️
- x Reader “Ghosts of the Game”
- x Bounty Hunter Reader “Crossfire” multiple characters ❤️
- x Jedi Reader “War On Two Fronts” multiple parts
- “Smile”❤️
- “501st Confidential (Except it’s Not)” ❤️
Arc Trooper Echo
- x Old Republic Jedi Reader❤️
- x Old Republic Jedi Reader pt.2❤️
- “A Ghost in the Circuit” 🏡❤️
Hardcase
- x medic reader ❤️
Kix
- x Jedi reader “stitches & secrets”❤️
- “First Name Basis” ❤️
Overall Material List
Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao
I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling
“You’re What?!”
501st x Reader
You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.
“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.
“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.
You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.
“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.
“Fine. Just tired.”
Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.
That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.
The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.
“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”
“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
Fives blinked. Then frowned.
“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”
And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.
“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”
“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”
“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.
“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.
Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”
“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.
“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.
“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.
Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.
“Is this true?”
You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”
Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”
He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”
The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.
⸻
Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.
“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.
“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.
Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”
“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”
Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”
Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”
You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”
Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”
Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”
“…It’s a cold, sir.”
“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”
By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.
And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?
There was a banner.
“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”
Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.
Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.
Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”
“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.
“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”
Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You might be cold.”
Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.
Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”
Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”
At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.
Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”
“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”
“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”
Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”
“…Why are there six different bowls?”
“We all made you soup.”
“I am not eating six soups.”
“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”
You were 80% sure he made that up.
That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.
“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”
There was even a checklist on your locker:
• No dying
• No hiding symptoms
• Tell Kix everything
• At least try to act mortal
You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.
You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.
You weren’t just better.
You were home.
Salve! I was wondering if you could do a 501st x Fem!Reader where she can comfort the boys after they have nightmares. Cuddly and fluffy fic? Love your work! 💙🇳🇴
“The Warmth Between Wars”
501st x Fem!Reader
⸻
The war was quiet tonight, at least on this side of the stars.
Your bunk was tucked into the corner of the 501st’s temporary barracks, a little pocket of calm in a galaxy always set to burn. The lights were dim, the hum of the base a low lull, and most of the troopers were supposed to be asleep.
But you’d learned that sleep didn’t come easy to men who’d seen too much.
That’s why you stayed awake—your blankets soft and open, arms ready, heart steady.
The first to appear was Hardcase—because of course it was. Loud in everything he did except when he was hurting. You heard his footsteps even before you saw him.
“Hey,” he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Couldn’t shut my brain off. Kept hearing the gunfire… y’know. Just noise. Dumb.”
You patted the spot beside you. “It’s not dumb.”
Hardcase flopped down like a kicked puppy, curling into your side with his head pressed against your chest. “You smell better than blaster fire,” he mumbled.
You chuckled, brushing a hand through his wild hair. “High praise.”
A few minutes later, Echo slipped in like a ghost, eyes hollow.
“Wasn’t even my nightmare,” he whispered. “It was Fives’. I heard him in his sleep.”
“Then bring him too.”
Echo looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, Fives emerged from the shadows, rubbing his eyes.
“You’re like a kriffing magnet,” Fives grumbled, but he smiled when he saw you and Hardcase.
“Only for broken things,” you teased softly.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Fives replied, nestling in beside Echo, his back brushing yours. You reached back and grabbed his hand, grounding him.
The bunk was growing crowded—but there was always room.
Kix came next, grumbling about how it wasn’t “medically advisable” for this many people to share a bunk, but you knew better.
“You’re not here for medical advice, are you?” you asked.
“…No,” he muttered, surrendering as he slid under the blanket at your feet, resting his head near your knees.
Then Appo arrived, quiet and unsure, his helmet still on.
“You can take it off,” you said gently. “You don’t have to wear the war in here.”
He hesitated… then removed it.
The look in his eyes told you everything: too many losses. Too much weight.
You pulled him down beside you. “Just for tonight, let it go.”
Jesse and Dogma came together—one cracked jokes, the other said nothing. But both of them settled close, drawn by the comfort you offered without needing to ask.
Eventually, even Rex came.
He stood at the edge of the pile like a soldier standing watch. Not ready to be vulnerable. Not yet.
“Captain?” you said softly.
His eyes flicked to yours.
You didn’t pressure him. Just opened your arm, just a little, just enough.
Rex hesitated… then stepped forward and sank to the floor beside your bunk, resting his head against your thigh. You ran your fingers through his hair, slow and steady.
No one spoke for a while. The room was warm with breath and body heat, filled with the soft sound of steady inhales.
For just a few hours, there was no war. No armor. No titles. Just tired men wrapped around someone who loved them.
You pressed your lips to the crown of Fives’ head, gave Jesse’s hand a squeeze, and reached down to cup Rex’s cheek.
“You’re safe,” you whispered. “All of you. Tonight, you’re safe.”
And the nightmares stayed away.
Hi! I had a fun idea for maybe a Bad batch or even 501st fic where it’s clones x fem!reader where’s she’s trying to be undercover as a guy and is trying her best not to get caught (like how mulan plays ping in Disneys Mulan) bit of crack but maybe some spice if it fits?
Love your writing, it’s so addictive! Xx
“Call Me Pynn”
501st x Fem!Reader
The Republic needed a local contact for a black ops infiltration on an Outer Rim moon run by a rogue droid manufacturer supplying the Separatists. The factory was buried under city sprawl, well-guarded, and impossible to breach without drawing too much attention. So the plan was simple: go in quiet, sneak through the underworld channels, and shut down the operation from the inside.
And for once, you were the contact.
The catch? You had to go in disguised—a young male merc, neutral in the conflict but “curious” enough to lend his skills. Intel said the droids had been tricked into recruiting unaffiliated guns. All you had to do was get in, get the layout, and feed it to the Republic.
Of course, the Jedi had “improved” the plan. Now you were being assigned to a squad for deep cover infiltration—the 501st.
And they thought you were a boy.
⸻
You were barely five minutes in when you walked into the wrong locker room.
“Yo, Pynn! Took you long enough,” Fives called out, peeling off his blacks like it was a kriffing spa day. “Locker’s open next to mine. You sharing with Jesse—he snores, so wear earplugs.”
You blinked. “Wait—I thought I had quarters—”
“No time,” Rex interrupted, walking by with a towel over his shoulder and absolutely no shame. “We’re shipping out at 0600. Briefing in twenty.”
Anakin, sitting on a bench with a datapad, looked up and smirked. “You’ll get used to the smell.”
You stood there, frozen. You were still in partial armor, hair short under your helmet, chest bound so tight you could barely breathe. You hadn’t even figured out how to change in private yet.
Then Fives pulled you in, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You showerin’? C’mon, kid. You’re part of the team now. No secrets.”
Oh no.
⸻
You managed to fake an urgent comm call to avoid the group debrief butt-naked shower bonding time.
Now, sitting stiffly between Jesse and Kix, you studied the holomap.
“Droid patrols here, here, and here,” Anakin said, pointing to the glowing corridors of the factory. “You and Pynn go in first, disguised as freelancers. The rest of us follow once the back door’s open.”
Rex narrowed his eyes. “You sure he’s ready for that?”
“I’m standing right here,” you muttered, lowering your voice an octave.
“Relax,” Anakin replied. “Pynn’s more experienced than he looks. Isn’t that right?”
You nod. “Seen worse gigs.”
“Where?” Kix asked. “Nar Shaddaa? Ord Mantell?”
You pause. “…Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Both. At the same time.”
Kix blinked. Fives let out a low whistle. “Damn. Respect.”
You were barely holding it together. Between the compression binder, the fake voice, and the constant fear of discovery, your nerves were fried.
And yet… you caught Jesse watching you from the corner of his eye. That half-grin. Suspicious. Too suspicious.
⸻
Barracks
Lights out. You’d pulled your bunk curtain shut and were lying stiff as a corpse in full blacks, binder still on. You couldn’t risk changing. Not here. Not yet.
Then came the whisper.
“Hey… Pynn.”
You nearly jumped out of your skin.
It was Fives.
You pulled the curtain back just enough to peek. “What?”
He grinned. Way too close. “You snore like a frightened tooka.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Also—you sleep fully dressed. Bit weird, huh?”
You stared. “Cold-blooded. Like a Trandoshan.”
He chuckled. “Alright, alright. Just checking.”
Then he leaned in a little more, eyes flicking down your face.
“You ever kissed anyone, Pynn?”
You choked. “What kind of question—”
“You know. Just asking.”
Pause.
“…What would that make you if I had?” you shot back, trying to channel swagger instead of fear.
Fives winked. “Confused. But not uninterested.”
⸻
The city smelled like burnt copper and damp oil. Steam hissed from vents and flickering lights strobed against wet duracrete. Jesse walked ahead of you, dressed in stolen merc armor and moving like he’d always been on the wrong side of the law.
You trailed behind, posture low, helmet tucked under one arm, trying not to look like a girl bound so tightly her ribs wanted to snap.
Your alias was “Pynn Vesh”: rogue merc, unaffiliated, decent with tech, better with blasters. That part was true. The part where you were definitely not a woman infiltrating a droid facility with the Republic’s most observant soldiers? Not so true.
“Factory gate’s two klicks east,” Jesse muttered over his shoulder. “You good?”
“Fine,” you rasped, lowering your voice.
“You always sound like that, or is this just your merc voice?” he teased.
“Puberty was… weird for me,” you muttered.
Jesse gave a huff of amusement but didn’t push it. Thank the stars.
You slipped through the outer checkpoint without issue, your stolen ident chip scanning green. Jesse grinned at the droid guard, real smooth.
“Name’s Jax. This is my partner, Pynn. We’re here to see Garesh. He’s expecting us.”
The droid blinked in binary.
“Proceed.”
As you stepped through the blast doors into the factory interior, Jesse leaned close.
“You’re pretty quiet for a merc.”
You glanced at him. “Quiet doesn’t get me shot.”
He smirked. “Fair. But I still can’t figure you out.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No,” Jesse said easily. “Just makes me curious. You got anyone waiting back home?”
You froze.
“What?”
“You know—girlfriend, boyfriend, someone who writes you sappy comms? Never thought mercs got the chance.”
Oh. Oh no.
Behind you, another voice crackled through the comm.
“Pynn?”
Anakin.
You flinched.
“Y-yeah?”
“Signal’s clean. You’re in. Factory’s wide open on thermal—mostly droids. You’ll need to plant the beacon by the east terminal. That’ll give us access.”
“Copy.”
But Jesse wasn’t done.
“Seriously though. Someone’s gotta be missing you.”
You blinked fast, keeping your face neutral. “No time for that.”
Fives cut in over comms, voice full of amusement. “You mean you’ve never hooked up? Stars, you’re worse than Rex.”
“Hey.” Rex barked.
“Just saying!” Fives laughed. “We fight, we bleed, and apparently some of us die virgins.”
You almost choked.
“Would you all shut up?” you hissed.
Jesse chuckled. “You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m—shut up.”
“Wait,” Anakin said suddenly. His voice changed—focused. “Zoom in on Pynn’s thermal feed.”
You stopped cold.
“Why?” Jesse asked.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Anakin’s voice again, casual but sharp. “Something’s… off.”
You started sweating under your armor. The binder tightened like a vice around your ribs.
Jesse looked at you sideways. “You sick or something?”
“I’m fine,” you snapped, too quickly.
“Pynn,” Anakin said. “Stay sharp. Jesse, watch his six.”
You reached the terminal, hands shaking. Plugged in the beacon. Light turned green. Done.
“We’re clear,” you breathed.
“Copy that. Pull out—quietly.”
You started to move—then froze again.
A droid had turned.
Its photoreceptors locked on you.
“Unauthorized personnel detected—”
“Shab,” Jesse growled.
“Engaging—”
Blasterfire lit the air.
“GO!” Jesse shouted, grabbing your arm.
You bolted, ducking bolts, binder cutting into your chest, heartbeat like a drum. Jesse covered your back as you both ran into the alleys.
⸻
Back at the safehouse, breathless and bruised, you collapsed into a chair. Jesse paced, helmet off, frowning.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” you gasped, trying to discreetly loosen your chest wrap under your shirt. It was soaked with sweat.
“You sure? You were… wheezing.”
“Kriff, let a guy breathe.”
He stared at you. “…You are a guy, right?”
Your heart stopped.
The room went dead silent.
You opened your mouth.
Before you could say anything, the door opened.
Anakin stepped inside.
Slowly.
Staring straight at you.
You froze.
He cocked his head.
“…Pynn,” he said, voice low. “We need to talk.”
You stood rigid by the supply crates, breathing hard through your nose as Anakin Skywalker stared you down like you were a broken protocol droid confessing to murder.
Jesse sat slumped on the couch behind you, fiddling with his helmet, clearly confused but too tired to start asking weird questions. Yet.
Anakin took one slow step forward, arms crossed over his chest.
“You want to explain what that thermal scan was?”
You clenched your jaw. “I was told this op was need-to-know, General. Even your team wasn’t supposed to know.”
“Uh-huh.”
Another step. He was studying you like a puzzle. You hated it.
You lowered your voice, just enough. “I was sent in under deep cover. Female operative, disguised as male. Assigned contact for internal breach. Command wanted eyes inside without the boys sniffing it out.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh,” he said finally. “So you’re not a guy.”
You scowled. “What gave it away?”
Anakin cracked a grin. “Besides the thermal? You run like you’re trying not to split a seam.”
“I am.”
He huffed out a laugh.
“Okay. Well, you’re a crap dude.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Voice is too soft. You’re skittish as hell. And you make weird eye contact with Fives. Which honestly just made me think you were scared of him, but now I’m guessing you were trying not to get flirted into oblivion.”
“I was absolutely scared of him.”
Anakin chuckled again, shaking his head. “Stars help you when they find out.”
You stiffened. “They can’t.”
“Relax. I’m not going to say anything.”
You blinked. “You’re not?”
“Nope.” He smirked. “But you’ll crack. That’s not a threat, it’s a guarantee. I give it two days before Jesse walks in on you binding your chest or Fives tries to play strip sabaac.”
You groaned, dropping your head against the crate with a dull thud.
“Don’t remind me.”
He leaned casually against the wall. “So what’s your name?”
You hesitated. Then sighed.
“Y/N.”
“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” His grin widened. “You know, this is probably the least chaotic thing to happen to me this month.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“Tell me about it.” His tone grew a bit softer. “You handled yourself well out there, by the way.”
You blinked.
“Thanks… General.”
“But seriously,” he added, already halfway to the door, “the second Fives finds out, he’s going to combust.”
You buried your face in your hands.
Fives paused by the safehouse wall, where he’d been leaning casually with a ration bar, totally not eavesdropping. His eyebrows were furrowed in deep confusion.
He looked at Jesse, who had joined him during the tail end of the conversation.
Jesse blinked. “Did—did General Skywalker just call Pynn she?”
Fives chewed his bar, brow furrowed. “I thought he said they.”
Jesse squinted at the door.
“I think I need to sit down.”
⸻
The worst thing about pretending to be a guy?
Sleeping with the guys.
You’d been given a cot shoved between Jesse and Kix. Jesse snored like a malfunctioning speeder bike and Kix talked in his sleep—violently. And you? You’d slept curled under a blanket, stiff as a body in carbonite, binder nearly slicing into your sides.
Now it was morning. And unfortunately, your binder strap had snapped.
You stood frozen in the refresher, one gloved hand holding the compression vest tightly closed, staring at yourself in the cracked mirror.
There was a knock.
“Pynn?” Jesse’s voice.
Your soul left your body.
“You good?” he called again. “You’ve been in there for like… thirty minutes.”
“I’m fine,” you croaked, voice cracking so hard it practically betrayed everything.
Jesse paused. “…you sound weird.”
“I’m constipated!” you blurted.
Silence.
“…Okay,” Jesse muttered, “well, drink water or something.”
You slapped a hand over your face. Kriffing hell.
You had managed to throw on your chest plate and keep things moderately together, but something was off. The guys were starting to notice.
Especially Jesse.
He was watching you.
Not like in a creepy way. Just—watching. Narrow-eyed. Curious.
And Kix? The medic?
He kept frowning at the way you moved. At your stiff posture. At how your breaths came shallow. You were doomed.
“Hey, Pynn,” Jesse called while twirling a blaster idly. “Come run drills with me.”
You nearly flinched. “Drills?”
He grinned. “Yeah. Hand-to-hand. See what you’re made of.”
“No thanks,” you said quickly. “I, uh—pulled something.”
Fives piped in from the corner: “What, your integrity?”
“I will shoot you.”
Jesse kept smirking. “What are you so afraid of, Pynn? Losing to me? C’mon. Don’t be shy.”
You were about to answer when you turned too fast—your vest caught on the table edge—and a rip echoed through the air.
Time slowed.
Your chest plate dropped.
Your binder loosened.
And suddenly, you were holding the front of your shirt together with both hands, eyes wide in pure panic.
Fives blinked.
Hard.
Jesse straight-up choked.
Hardcase—Force bless him—walked into the room mid-moment and said, “Hey, are we outta rations?—Oh kriff.”
Everyone froze.
You didn’t breathe.
Then Jesse’s eyes dropped. His jaw dropped lower.
“…You’re a girl,” he whispered.
Fives made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a prayer. “That’s why you wouldn’t shower.”
“I knew something was off,” Kix muttered, half in awe, half scandalized.
You were burning alive.
Anakin appeared in the doorway with a cup of caf, took one look at the scene, and sipped slowly.
“I gave her two days,” he said smugly.
Jesse looked back at you, face suddenly unreadable. “…Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “guess the mission really was classified.”
Fives leaned on the wall and grinned at you. “You know, you’re a lot prettier when you’re not pretending to be constipated.”
“I hate all of you.”
“Crossfire” pt.3
Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex
You weren’t supposed to be in the clones barracks.
But you rarely went where you were supposed to.
The corridors were quiet, the hum of the ventilation system steady in your ears. Most of the troopers were off-duty or deployed, leaving the barracks feeling like a ghost shell of itself. You moved like you belonged—fluid, confident, precise. The kind of presence that drew attention and made others question their instincts.
Then—
“What the hell are you doing here?”
The voice stopped you mid-step.
Commander Cody stood in the hallway, brow furrowed, arms crossed. His armor was half-off—pauldrons gone, chest plate open, undersuit exposed to the dim light. He looked tired. Suspicious.
And maddeningly attractive.
You offered him your best smile. “Missed the smell of plastoid and repressed emotions.”
Cody didn’t laugh. He didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”
“I came to see a friend.”
“Name.”
You stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Commander Cody.”
Cody’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. “You vanished. No comms. No explanation.”
“And yet here I am,” you whispered, voice lower now. “Alive. Still on the right side… mostly.”
He stared you down. “You don’t belong in this sector.”
“You gonna arrest me?” you asked, chin tilted up, a faint challenge in your tone.
“I should.”
“But you won’t.”
Silence. Charged and heavy.
He looked at you then—really looked. Not as a mission asset or potential threat. Just… you.
You took a step closer, reaching out and brushing your fingers against the edge of his unarmored shoulder. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t like when I do this?”
He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.
But he didn’t answer either.
And that said more than enough. You pulled your hand away from Cody slowly, leaving a ghost of heat behind.
“Still pretending?” you asked.
He didn’t answer.
But when you turned to leave, his voice stopped you again.
“Don’t make me choose between you and the Republic.”
You paused.
Then, without looking back: “You might have to.”
⸻
Meanwhile – Jedi Temple, Council Chambers
Master Kit Fisto stood in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, expression solemn. “She’s not just reckless. She’s evasive. Deceptive. She’s manipulating soldiers. Getting close in ways that compromise their judgment.”
Mace Windu’s eyes were cold steel. “I’ve seen the reports. She shouldn’t have been on Teth in the first place. And then she vanishes with a Force-sensitive child?”
Yoda hummed, tapping his cane. “Proof, you lack. The Chancellor’s word, she has.”
Kit pressed forward. “I watched her outside 79’s. The way she moved. The way she spoke to the clones. She’s not interested in loyalty. She’s interested in influence.”
Obi-Wan, leaning forward, tapped the table gently. “I won’t pretend she isn’t… complicated. But she’s fought beside us. Risked her life for the Republic. There’s more to her than subterfuge.”
“She’s dangerous,” Mace said firmly. “And she has access to our inner circles through the Chancellor. That makes her a risk.”
“Or a tool,” Obi-Wan countered. “If used wisely.”
“A tool for who, I wonder,” Kit muttered.
Yoda’s eyes narrowed, deep in thought.
“The Chancellor’s friend, she is,” he murmured. “But in shadows, much hides. Watch her, we must.”
⸻
The smell of caf hung heavy in the air. Trays clattered, boots thudded, and clone chatter rose in a dull, tired murmur. The war never stopped—but moments like this made it feel like it slowed.
Rex sat at the edge of a table, arms crossed, a half-eaten ration bar forgotten on his tray.
Across from him, Kix, Fives, Jesse, and Tup were deep in a low conversation, and even though they weren’t exactly trying to hide it, the minute Kix glanced Rex’s way, the silence tightened.
He noticed.
“What?” Rex asked flatly, his tone already edged.
Kix looked reluctant. Jesse grimaced. Fives looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Tup leaned forward and said it bluntly: “She was here last night. Sector C-9.”
Rex’s spine straightened. “What?”
“Commander Cody’s floor,” Kix clarified, stirring his caf. “No clearance. No escort. Just… strolled in.”
“Unannounced,” Jesse added, a bit more cautiously. “Didn’t cause trouble, but still. It’s odd.”
“She’s got a pattern,” Tup said. “Getting close to officers. Playing coy. Smiling at everyone like she knows a secret.”
Fives grinned. “I’d let her manipulate me.”
“Of course you would,” Kix muttered.
“She’s a distraction,” Tup continued. “And a dangerous one. What’s she even doing here again? She’s not military.”
“She’s useful,” Jesse countered. “She’s worked with us before. She gets results.”
“She disappears without a trace and comes back with clearance from the Chancellor,” Kix said quietly. “No chain of command, no protocol. It’s off.”
Rex didn’t speak for a moment, staring down at his tray like it held answers.
Then, softly: “Where is she now?”
Fives looked up from his drink, smirking. “Why? Planning on asking Cody?”
Rex stood up without another word.
⸻
You were leaning against the rusted edge of a shipping container in the lower levels, checking a concealed blaster’s sight when you heard footsteps behind you.
“Didn’t know I needed a guard dog,” you said without looking. “Let me guess—Cody ratted me out?”
“You were in the barracks,” Rex said.
You turned to face him, expression unreadable. “I was.”
“Why?”
You met his stare. “Why do you care?”
Rex’s jaw clenched. “Because I don’t know what side you’re playing anymore.”
You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Does it bother you that I was with Cody? Or that you weren’t the one I came to see?”
He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought,” you said, stepping closer. “You liked it better when I was gone.”
“I liked it better when I trusted you.”
The space between you was close now. Tense. Alive.
“I never asked for your trust, Captain,” you whispered. “But you gave it. And now you’re scared you’ll have to take it back.”
He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stepped back.
“Stay away from my men,” he said, voice low.
You tilted your head. “Or what?”
“You won’t get another warning.”
Then he turned and left.
You watched him go, pulse steady, mask in place—but somewhere beneath it, something twisted just a little tighter.
⸻
Mace Windu stood before a star chart, arms folded, as Kit Fisto entered and closed the door behind him.
“She’s sowing division among the clones,” Kit said without preamble. “I’m hearing it from troopers. Rumors. Questions.”
“Even Skywalker’s men?”
“Especially them.”
Mace nodded grimly. “She’s destabilizing morale.”
“Yoda still thinks she may serve a purpose.”
“He’s wrong,” Mace said. “The Chancellor’s got her in his pocket. She’s not our ally—she’s his spy.”
“And if she’s in the field again?” Kit asked.
Mace’s eyes narrowed.
“We keep watching. And when she slips—we move.”
⸻
The city outside glowed gold with the rising sun, but inside the Chancellor’s office, everything felt cold and deliberate. You stood still as Chancellor Palpatine circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth as silk.
“There’s a mission,” he said. “One only you can be trusted with.”
She didn’t flinch. “Who’s involved?”
“Master Windu. General Kenobi. Their men. You will join them as my personal attache.”
A pause.
“Officially, you’ll be assisting in clearing the last remnants of a Separatist stronghold on Erobus,” he continued. “Unofficially, there are certain… elements beneath the facility I want destroyed without the Jedi ever knowing they existed. Do you understand?”
She nodded once. “And if they suspect me?”
He gave a soft, chilling smile. “Then perhaps it is time they learned to trust my allies. You will prove yourself invaluable.”
She didn’t like it. She rarely did. But she knew better than to argue.
⸻
The dropship roared through Erobus’s dead sky. Wind carried the smoke of a long-dead battlefield. The reader sat apart from the Jedi and the clones, her gaze fixed out the narrow viewport.
General Kenobi was in quiet conversation with Commander Cody. Windu sat in silence, fingers steepled in meditation. The clones around her — the 212th — watched her like she was an animal in a cage. Not openly hostile. Just… unsure.
She didn’t blame them.
“Never thought we’d see you again,” Cody muttered as he walked past her toward the front. “You just have a habit of showing up where things are about to explode?”
She smirked. “And you have a habit of being too pretty for your own good.”
He raised a brow but kept walking.
Windu had acknowledged her presence with a nod. Kenobi had raised a brow, but said nothing. This time, there was no need to pretend. She was here by Palpatine’s orders—but acting as if she belonged among them.
They moved quickly, carving through what little resistance remained. The reader fought without flourish—blasters precise, movement efficient, lethal. She noticed how Windu watched her more than he watched the enemy. Not with distrust. With… calculation.
The mission moved fast. She fought alongside the Jedi and the troopers, not quite one of them, but not an outsider either. Not anymore.
She planted explosives in corridors no one else entered. Disabled systems no one else noticed. And when Windu asked too many questions, she deflected with just enough truth to keep suspicion from blooming.
She was the perfect tool.
When the fighting ended and the skies were silent again, the group began regrouping for departure.
But Windu stayed behind.
She stood at the edge of the rubble, arms crossed, staring at the still-burning wreckage. Windu approached silently, his presence calm and weighted.
“You were too comfortable in there,” Windu said.
She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You knew where to strike. What to look for.”
“And?”
His gaze sharpened. “And you’ve done this before.”
She hesitated.
Then said, “I’ve done a lot of things.”
He studied her. Then, in a voice low and almost too calm: “Why do you work for him? Palpatine?”
She didn’t blink. “Because I’m too afraid not to.”
That stunned him — not because she said it, but because of how honest it was.
“You hesitated,” he said simply.
She glanced at him, unbothered. “I’m always hesitant when explosives are involved.”
She exhaled, the smoke curling from the wreckage catching in the light. “The clones… they trust blindly. They don’t see the game being played around them. They deserve better.”
Windu’s voice was low. “So why play the game?”
She was quiet for a moment, then: “Because I’m not brave enough not to.”
Windu stepped closer. “The Chancellor—does he own your fear?”
She met his eyes, finally lowering her hood. “He owns everyone’s fear. I just know better than to pretend otherwise.”
Silence hung heavy between them.
Then Windu said, “You care about them. The clones.”
“I care about them,” she added quietly. “The clones. Maybe that’s the problem.”
Windu was silent for a long time. “Then maybe you’re not the threat we thought you were.”
“But I still am a threat,” she said, soft and sharp.
He didn’t argue. “So is everyone these days.”
They stood side by side, the flames crackling around them. For the first time, Windu didn’t look at her like she was a threat. He looked at her like someone caught between survival and sacrifice—like he understood.
Finally, he said, “Let’s get back.”
As they walked toward the ship, the reader didn’t look back. But deep down, a new kind of fear was blooming—because for the first time, someone from the Council believed in her.
And she didn’t know how long she could keep surviving if that belief ever turned to betrayal.
⸻
The storm had passed, but the sky was still dark.
Republic shuttles hummed, crates clanged, clone troopers barked orders as the camp disassembled around her. The reader stood near the edge of the landing pad, helmet in one hand, half-listening to the static on her comm.
“Classified orders from the Chancellor.” That’s what the officer had said. “Immediate departure. Debrief in person.”
She should’ve walked straight to the shuttle. But she lingered. And he found her.
Cody.
He walked up slow, arms crossed, boots crunching gravel beneath him. His armor was dusted in ash and plasma scarring. She glanced at him but didn’t speak first.
“I figured you’d disappear again,” he said.
“Still might.”
He nodded. “You always do.”
There was no anger in his tone. Just… tired honesty.
She looked up at him fully then. “You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t know what to trust,” he replied, voice low. “You fight beside us. Then vanish. You show up under the Chancellor’s banner with Jedi clearance and secrets you don’t share.”
“I’m doing what I was asked to do.”
“By him.”
She stepped closer. “If I was working against you, you’d already be dead, Cody.”
He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re on our side.”
Silence fell between them, heavy as armor.
“I’m not the enemy,” she said finally.
“No,” Cody said, his eyes locked on hers. “But you’re not really one of us either.”
She looked away first. Her jaw clenched, throat dry. “I didn’t come here to explain myself.”
“Didn’t think you did.”
But as she turned to go, his voice followed her — quieter this time, almost uncertain:
“You care about the men. I see that. But whatever it is you’re caught in… don’t let it destroy you.”
She stopped, just for a second. Looked back over her shoulder, the weight of unspoken words between them.
“Too late,” she said.
Then she walked away, boarding the shuttle bound for Coruscant — bound for the Chancellor.
And Cody stood there long after she was gone.
⸻
The doors hissed shut behind her, sealing out the sounds of the city. Inside, the chamber was dim, silent, and airless—more a tomb than an office.
Chancellor Palpatine stood alone by the wide viewport, hands folded behind his back. The galactic skyline stretched endlessly beyond him, golden and glittering, but he never looked at it. His gaze was fixed far beyond, somewhere the reader couldn’t see.
She approached without speaking. She knew better.
After a long pause, he spoke.
“You completed your task on Erobus.”
“Yes.”
“And General Windu now believes you to be… sincere.”
“More or less.”
He turned to face her, that ever-calm expression carved into something unreadable. His voice stayed velvet-smooth.
“And yet I’m hearing troubling things. From the Temple. From officers in the field. About your behavior.”
Her brow lifted. “My behavior?”
“The clones,” he said simply. “Your… fondness for them. Particularly certain commanders.”
A silence settled between them.
He stepped closer.
“They are tools,” he said, tone soft but cold beneath. “Weapons. Instruments of war. Their purpose is clear. Yours is not.”
She straightened slightly. “I care about them.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A mistake. One that risks unraveling everything I’ve placed you into position to accomplish.”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You’ve done enough to sow doubt,” he snapped, his voice a sudden blade. “Among the Jedi. Among the troops. You’re being watched. And unless you want to be removed from this game completely, you will stop.”
He let the silence linger, then added with that familiar, venom-wrapped charm:
“No more flirting. No more attachments. No more secrets from me.”
She met his gaze. “You put me in the middle of this war like I’m a pawn.”
“You’re not a pawn,” he said. “You’re a scalpel. Sharp. Precise. And replaceable, if dulled.”
Her jaw clenched. But she said nothing.
He studied her a moment longer, then turned back to the window.
“You’ll be summoned soon. Another operation. One that cannot afford distraction. Stay focused, my dear. Or next time I will send someone else.”
She left without another word, the cold of the chamber clinging to her bones.
⸻
Sunlight filtered through the vast windows, casting long rays across the silent chamber. The Jedi Council had assembled in full, tension clinging to the space like smoke.
Obi-Wan stood near the center, arms tucked into his robes. Kit Fisto paced with measured steps, green tendrils swaying. Luminary Unduli remained seated but rigid, her eyes dark and sharp. Mace Windu watched all of them, silent but alert.
Chancellor Palpatine stood calmly before them, hands folded, robed in deep crimson. The ever-smiling face of the Republic.
“We have reason to believe she’s gone underground,” Kit said at last, stopping mid-step. “Not just off-world—off-grid. She’s not been seen on Coruscant in days.”
Yoda’s ears lifted slightly. “Certain, are you?”
“She hasn’t reported in to her handler. Even the Chancellor can’t locate her,” Obi-Wan added, glancing at Palpatine.
Palpatine smiled thinly. “She works alone. That’s her strength. She’s unpredictable, yes, but not disloyal.”
“With respect, Chancellor,” Ki-Adi-Mundi interjected, “you yourself said her role was to assist the Jedi and the Senate. If she’s acting without instruction, she may no longer be operating in the Republic’s best interest.”
Palpatine’s smile didn’t falter. “She has always completed her missions. Always served the Republic’s cause—even if her methods were… unconventional.”
“She disappears when it suits her,” Luminary said coolly. “We do not know her true allegiance.”
“Nor her past,” Kit added. “Only that she is dangerous. Charming, yes. Tactical. But too close to too many of our clone officers.”
A silence fell again—this time heavier.
“She has gained the respect of some among us,” Mace finally said. “She confided in me. Her concern for the clones felt genuine.”
“And yet,” Kit said, “she manipulates that very concern to gain access and loyalty. I have seen it.”
Palpatine’s expression darkened slightly. “She has been instrumental in your victories. On Teth. On Erobus. She has risked her life for your cause, and for mine.”
“She serves your purpose, Chancellor,” Luminary said carefully. “But does she serve ours?”
Yoda’s voice cut through the room, quiet and calm. “Much we do not see. Dangerous, it is, to distrust allies too easily. But more dangerous still to trust without clarity.”
Palpatine exhaled slowly, placing his hand over his heart. “When she returns—and she will—you’ll see where her loyalties lie. Until then, I advise patience.”
The Council murmured among themselves. Some nodded. Some frowned. Some, like Kit Fisto and Ki-Adi-Mundi, exchanged long, skeptical glances.
The meeting dissolved soon after, but the air remained heavy with unease.
And somewhere far beyond Coruscant’s towers and temples, the reader moved unseen, far from both Jedi and Chancellor.
⸻
The bar was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Clones leaned against the counter, some still half-dressed from field drills, others fresh from debriefs, beer and synth-whiskey in hand. Laughter echoed in pockets. But the air carried something else too—unease.
Rex sat at a table near the back, helmet on the seat beside him. Cody dropped into the chair opposite, his brow drawn tight. They both had the look of men who’d been chasing shadows.
“She’s not answering her comms,” Rex muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Not to me, not to anyone.”
“Chancellor doesn’t know where she is either,” Cody said under his breath. “I checked through back channels. Even her client records went dark.”
Rex leaned back. “This isn’t like her.”
Cody didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tabletop for a beat too long. Then:
“Isn’t it?”
That hit Rex like a shot to the ribs. He sat up straighter. “What are you saying?”
“She’s not one of us, Rex. You know that. She comes and goes. Answers to people we don’t even see. And half the time, she’s in our barracks or our war rooms like she belongs there.”
“She helped us.”
“She also got close to a lot of us. Real close.”
Rex scowled. “You jealous?”
Cody shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be an idiot.”
Jesse dropped into a nearby seat, nursing a bruised jaw and a half-drained bottle. “You two talking about her again?”
“We’re trying to figure out where she is,” Rex said.
“Probably off charming someone new,” Jesse smirked. “Girl like that doesn’t disappear unless she’s got a good reason. Maybe she’s doing something for the Chancellor again.”
“Or for herself,” Cody said darkly.
Fives leaned in from the next table, ever the one to eavesdrop. “I heard she was seen boarding a Separatist freighter.”
“What?” Rex snapped.
“Some civvie transport crew in the outer systems. Said they saw someone matching her description getting on with a kid. Republic IDs, but separatist ship. Weird, right?”
Kix joined them, arms folded. “That’s not all. Some of the 212th are saying she had unrestricted access to classified battle plans. And now she’s vanished. Doesn’t look good.”
“Dangerous woman,” Tup murmured from the side. “Real dangerous. She’s been playing the long game. With us. With the Jedi. Maybe even the Chancellor.”
“She’s not a manipulator,” Rex growled. “She’s not the enemy.”
But his voice wavered for the first time.
Cody looked at him—hard, quiet.
“I want to believe that too, vod. But she didn’t just disappear. She chose to.”
A long silence fell over the table.
In the corner, Fives just smirked. “Hot, though. Definitely hot.”
Everyone groaned.
But beneath the laughter, doubt ran deep.
And in the back of Rex’s mind, a seed had been planted. One he couldn’t shake.
⸻
There was a kind of quiet in hyperspace she never got used to.
It wasn’t silence—ships hummed, wires buzzed, engines thrummed low like a heartbeat. But it was a strange, hollow quiet. The kind that filled the space behind your ribs when you were running from something, but didn’t know what yet.
She leaned back in the pilot’s seat, one leg propped on the console, the other jittering restlessly beneath her. The co-pilot’s chair beside her was tilted back, a blanket bunched across it, and a sleeping kid tucked beneath it—her “asset,” according to the encrypted file the Chancellor had burned into her comms a month ago.
Force-sensitive. About eight. Big eyes. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that made her nervous.
She hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t offered one.
He just followed her like a shadow, never crying, never resisting. He watched her like he was trying to memorize her—every twitch of her fingers, every sigh she let slip when she thought he wasn’t listening. Sometimes, she felt like he was the one babysitting her.
It should’ve made her skin crawl. Instead, it just… got under it. Slipped in sideways. Left a permanent chill.
She was supposed to wait for new instructions. No contact. No Republic. Not even the Chancellor wanted her sending outbound transmissions.
“Too risky,” he’d said. “Stay buried. Until I call for you.”
That was fine.
She didn’t want to hear from him. Not after what he’d made her do.
So she flew. Drifted between systems, one jump ahead of suspicion. Took the kid to Felucia—quiet jungles, strange colors. Then to Naboo. Then to Kashyyyk. The Wookiees didn’t talk much, and when they did, they didn’t ask questions. She liked that.
The kid liked it too.
He smiled when the wind hit his face, laughed when the vines swung low enough for him to climb. He meditated with the elders under the great trees, palms flat, eyes closed, lips moving in languages he didn’t know.
She didn’t know what to do with him.
She could fight men twice her size, break into a warship, and disappear from Coruscant’s grid in under five minutes—but kids?
Force-sensitive, fragile, unpredictable kids?
Not her forte.
Still, she bought him warm food when he was hungry. Sat with him when the nights were too loud. Pulled the blanket up over him when he nodded off mid-jump.
And he… trusted her.
Gods help him.
And Then.
The transmission came mid-jump. An old code. Buried deep.
She opened it. Expected orders. Coordinates. Updates.
Instead, she got this:
“Terminate the asset.”
Just that.
No signature. No voice message. Just those three words in bloodless text.
She sat still for a long time, the cockpit lights casting pale gold across her features.
No.
Her hand hovered over the console. She could delete it. Pretend she never saw it.
Or… she could do exactly what he said.
She looked at the boy—still sleeping, thumb tucked near his mouth, his little body curled like a comma in the co-pilot’s seat.
He trusted her. Even after everything. Even knowing nothing.
And she—
She didn’t know how to kill him.
She didn’t want to.
Her fingers slowly lowered.
She encrypted the message. Buried it. Then cut off all outbound comms completely. Even the backup ones Palpatine thought she didn’t know he’d installed.
And for the first time since she agreed to this job, she felt something like resolve settle in her chest.
She wasn’t going to kill the kid.
Not for Palpatine. Not for anyone.
She’d disappear again. Go dark. Real dark.
And figure it out on her own.
⸻
Three months later and the smell of dirt never really left her hands.
Didn’t matter how long she scrubbed them, how hot the water was, how much Wookiee soap she used—the scent was baked in now. Like soot after fire. Like blood under your nails.
The kid was currently chasing a flock of half-feral featherbeasts across the field, shrieking with laughter while they squawked and ran in all directions like headless idiots. He’d tied one of her spare bandanas around his head and called himself “The King of Beaks.” She wasn’t sure if it was a game or a cult.
She squinted up at the twin suns and groaned, wiping sweat from her brow with a dirt-stained sleeve.
“This was a mistake.”
The house—if you could call it that—was lopsided and half-sunken into the earth like it had given up on being vertical. The roof leaked when it rained, which was often. The windows were warped. There was a trapdoor in the pantry she hadn’t opened yet because, frankly, she was afraid of what lived down there.
They’d been here for three months.
Three whole, uninterrupted months of staying hidden, staying off-grid, and pretending to be something other than what they were: a wanted merc with blood on her hands, and a stolen Force-sensitive child the Chancellor wanted dead.
The farm had been unoccupied when they arrived. Or rather, she’d made it unoccupied.
The farmer hadn’t been too keen on visitors, and even less keen on handing over his property to a stranger with a shifty smile and a blaster behind her back. But things got violent, as they do. He tried to gut her with a farming tool. She shot him in the throat. It was a short negotiation.
The kid never asked where the farmer went. He just helped her drag the body into the woods and asked if they could keep the loth-cat that came with the barn.
She said yes. It bit her the next day.
She’d done a lot of things in her life.
Assassinations. Espionage. Slicing into blacksite servers, seducing corrupt senators, starting bar fights, finishing wars.
But nothing had prepared her for running a farm.
Nothing.
The equipment was older than some planets she’d been to. The power converters buzzed at night like they were haunted. One of the water tanks screamed every time you flushed the toilet. The crops didn’t grow right, mostly because she forgot to plant them in any kind of order. She tried eating something she thought was edible last week and spent two hours curled up next to the loth-cat vomiting and hallucinating moisture ghosts.
She was not thriving.
But the kid was.
He’d put on weight. Color came back into his cheeks. He laughed now. Asked her questions about the stars. Sat cross-legged on the porch with his eyes closed, humming softly, moving stones with his mind and smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She watched him from the porch sometimes.
And felt something awful bloom behind her ribs.
Attachment, she thought. Stupid.
Later that night, they sat under the stars on the porch steps, sipping warm synth-milk and watching the night bugs dance in the grass.
“You ever think about going back?” he asked, voice soft.
She didn’t look at him.
“Back where?”
He shrugged. “Where people are.”
She sighed, tilting her head back to look at the sky. The stars looked close tonight. Like she could pick one and climb inside it.
“I’ve never been great with people.”
“You like me.”
“…You’re barely people.”
He giggled, and she smirked. Then, after a pause—
“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” he asked.
The smile faded from her lips.
She didn’t have the heart to tell him yes.
That some of them never stopped.
She reached over and ruffled his hair instead. “We’ll be alright.”
For now.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
“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.