#clone commando fixer x reader

Fixer would never have thought to have an acquaintance outside his line of work. Let alone a civilian, a natborn. All that matters is his duty to be done as a member of the best commando squad. But when he meets you, he is indifferent. Keeps to himself, quiet, observant. When you start to spill more of your life story, he listens, taking every bit as intelligence perhaps he could use against you for later days as one can never be too careful. It is his upbringing. But thank the stars it never happens. Fixer would let you vent about whatever situation you've landed yourself in, and he'd sit there and listen with the patience of the most zen man in the galaxy. Although he could never talk about anything else but missions and related objectives to you, he shares what he could to make it even.

𝐂 = 𝐂𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐬

── .✦ Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?

He does like cuddles! But not touchy. Fixer is observant, so he searches for the best moment to slip into your routine without disrupting. When you're free of chores and deadlines, that's when he'd take your hand and lie both of yourselves down on the bed or couch, your head tucked under his chin and strong arms wound around you with affection. Fixer would then give tiny kisses to your forehead before he finally talks. It could be a question about how your day went, what's for dinner that night and how he wants to help, or a random complaint about Scorch’s excessive use of explosives in the last op. Either of those are followed by answers to your train of questions you'd ask him back. This is his favorite part after a long day where he could get to unwind with you, safe and loved in his arms.

𝐃 = 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜

── .✦ Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?

At first, doubt settled. As a commando, as a clone, he could never. Fixer believed that the chance of enjoying some kind of life outside war is so slim that the percentage starts with zero and followed by at least seven-digit decimals. But then he met you, and you showed him what it could be like after the war. Alas, until now he stands by his belief. But at least he's met you and you are proof that happiness, even when one soldier knows it could be temporary, should be cherished when time allows him to. Fixer refuses to move in with you until the time is right, but he is terrific at helping you with house chores. When he comes over, he makes sure you sit down and relax while he works.

𝐄 = 𝐄𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

── .✦ If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

Between you and him, he'd be the one to bring it up to you first, and knowing Fixer, he'd be blunt about it. He'd bring up every minor inconvenience and troubles he failed to course through, how much it bothered him, and especially how much it burdened him and nearly jeopardized his missions once or twice. As a commando he finds it difficult to distribute his time between you and his duty for the Republic. For him, he is simply not capable of returning everything you've done for him, and you've done a lot more than him, with a lot more effort and a lot more love. Fixer doesn't blame you, but he doesn't blame himself because he knows very well who and what he is. It hurts, but it is a matter of ‘right person, wrong time’.

𝐅 = 𝐅𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞(𝐞)

── .✦ How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?

Fixer is the kind of guy who would take things slow. Patience is a virtue. Slicing is his expertise and with it comes time and effort necessary to get the job done. Fixer believes that nothing should be taken in a hurry unless it's about disarming an active denotator and he prefers to build layers upon layers of trust and reciprocation before sealing the deal. Of course he has little knowledge about marriage and commitment, but roughly it does have the same undertone of living with the same pod brothers for all his life (he thinks so). And with war, it makes things more difficult to even think about settling down permanently with you.

𝐆 = 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞

── .✦ How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

Delta’s comms expert is all about efficiency. He believes that every problem has a way out, so he doesn't waste time. Say, if Boss gets hurt, he wouldn't go easy applying bacta or jamming hypo into his brother, and he does that without waiting for any dullness and pain to pass first, because time is precious. But with you, Fixer is aware from the start he couldn't treat you the same as he does his brothers. His touches are gentle but sure, making sure you know that he's there for you. Concerned, but not overreacting. Always keeps himself close, but never wanting to overwhelm you with his excessive prodding against your current state of mind.

𝐇 = 𝐇𝐮𝐠𝐬

── .✦ Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?

Nope, Fixer doesn't do hugs. At least in public. He ducks quicker than blinking when Scorch tries to do that and still delivers a kick to the poor demo expert at the same time. Actually no, he pushes his brothers away the second they're trying to overstimulate him with physical contacts. Uh uh. Which is why you're special. You have the ‘free to hug my broody commando boyfriend’ card in your pocket at all times, and when he's used to your closeness, Fixer welcomes you warmly like it's all he's ever done throughout his life. His strong body engulfs you. And he is definitely aware of his more-than-normal body heat, enjoys the way you hum contentedly when you're in his arms, safe and sound.

𝐈 = 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮

── .✦ How fast do they say the L-word?

He was… slow. You confessed first, and Fixer appreciated it wholeheartedly but he told you he needed time and space to process, to digest. He assessed all kinds of risks that might shapeshift into a big hunk of obstacles later, and he weighed the odds. For all he knows, this is the same as commitment. Fixer is a man of few words, instead he makes sure he conveys his love through his actions. He takes care of you and urges you to share the load with him for the sake of efficiency. He wants to build trust before he could gather the courage to admit that the world wouldn't be the same if he doesn't love you back.

𝐉 = 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐲

── .✦ How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?

There is a certain limit. He lets it happen at first, observing and gathering evidence. And then, when both of you are alone, he confronts you. And when he acts with all this whirlwind of emotion, Fixer says things bluntly to the point that it'd hurt you, but there just isn't enough courage to tell you how hurt he is, and he doesn't know why. Maybe he's scared, but he doesn't want to admit it. He's borderline possessive, and you know that he is alike to a predator serpent; quiet but deadly. If there is anger begging to be ripped out of his suffocated chest, he wouldn't let it because he's afraid that he'd scare you.

𝐊 = 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬

── .✦ What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?

Oh, darling, when Fixer kisses you, the contact is sweeter and softer than candy floss. At first you could sense his remaining hesitation, but you held his hand reassuringly and encouraged him to deepen it. Since then he learns that you like deep kisses as such best, and every kiss is brimming with his love and passion. Fixer loves to kiss you on the forehead when you're cuddling. There's just something about it containing more intimacy than the ones he gives you on the lips. Meanwhile, you have a habit of kissing his dimples. He never says it, but it always makes his heart skip a beat.

𝐋 = 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

── .✦ How are they around children?

TERRIBLE. Sorry, love. Commandos weren't exactly allowed in the growth tube chamber so Fixer doesn't know jack about babysitting and handling children. Thankfully you keep him out of their reach (funny it's not the other way around), since you jokingly told him once that he 100% would encourage blaster exercise to your little nieces and nephews. Fixer is awkward, but since uncontrolled crying and screaming are a heck of a nuisance, he'd do it if one of them wants some uppies. There will be a day where he'll learn how to properly do these things, but it won't be today.

𝐌 = 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

── .✦ How are mornings spent with them?

Mornings with Fixer are slow and sweet, with every mumbled ‘good morning’ and kisses to your cheek right after he wakes up. When on-leave post-op, you let Fixer sleep in. Usually he'd wake up around 0900 (5 hours later than the time he usually does for squad PT) and head straight for the big homemade breakfast that you cooked. You have breakfast together and do a little planning for the day ahead alongside cups of fresh caf (with him, the planning and execution is very thorough).

𝐍 = 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

── .✦ How are nights spent with them?

In the evening, it's the time where all your excessive energy is to be spent before heading to bed. Most of the time it's full of snarky, cheeky comments with sarcastic retorts. It's not an argument, but it's just how you two talk (you can’t help it since Fixer challenges you most of the time). You tell him not to have late night showers too often. He tells you not to work overtime. You roast his new haircut. He bullies your depleting makeup. Each of them always ends up with a smack from you while he dodges mockingly laughing at you, so you two fit with each other like a goddamn puzzle.

𝐎 = 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧

── .✦ When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?

Fixer fights his own internal struggle whether he wants to tell you things that you… probably should know. It wouldn't probably do much, other than being a good-to-know sort of thing and even worse, adding to an existing pile of burden that you carry. He prefers to wait and see. He observes, calculating the perfect moment while seeing if he is ready and brave enough. But thankfully, when he does, you hear and listen to him. Although perhaps you couldn't relate, you sympathize and you're there for him, and for that he is grateful.

𝐏 = 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

── .✦ How easily angered are they?)

You'd think just because he's a slicer, a job that takes time and extra effort, it would make him the most patient man with well-regulated emotions in the world. No. The title goes to his brother Sev, a sniper, which makes sense. Fixer is easily poked by unnecessary small talk (Scorch is the frequent victim of his beration), but that's just amusing to you. Luckily he's not like that when in your company; knowing his limits, avoiding unwanted thesis, answering your questions as necessary until you ask further about the particular topic.

𝐐 = 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐞𝐬

── .✦ How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?

Fixer treats every, and I mean every, bit of information you sprout out no matter how small like precious war intel he couldn't lose. He keeps this little note in one of his spare datapads which online connection he has totally cut off, and in it are details about his cyare. What you like to eat on a bad day, your concert wishlist, how much sugar you'd like to put in your hot beverages, details about your family members that you've mentioned once or twice, the likes. Every time Fixer brings one of these up, there's this surprised look on your face that he can't help but feel a little victorious inside.

𝐑 = 𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫

── .✦ What is their favorite moment in your relationship?

For a soldier like him, the answer is humblingly simple. It's the moment when he comes home. When the squad's ship touches down on Coruscant, it's when Fixer knows he's merely hours away from seeing you and crushing you lovingly in his arms. After a few debriefs and showers and tiny warnings to his pod later, he goes to your dwelling with a go-bag in hand. When you open the door, you're immediately met with Fixer’s curls in your face as he instantly scoops you into his bone-crushing embrace, whispering how much he's missed you and how he can't wait to spend the next few days with you.

𝐒 = 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲

── .✦ How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?

Oh he can handle himself alright. Expertly. Single-handedly. He's a commando, as one should expect what kind of skills he's got under his sleeves. Most of the time, Fixer doesn't worry too much about you. As long as you're not on the frontline doing Maker knows what or going off world too often. The soldier side of him takes the wheel when both of you are out on a date. He holds your hand, keeps you close by his side—whether inside a taxi or along the sidewalk, in a diner booth or in the company of his much rowdier brothers. He wants you there with him and he wants to know that you're comfortable at the function. If not, bail. Because your well-being is priority.

𝐓 = 𝐓𝐫𝐲

── .✦ How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

To be honest, Fixer doesn't know much about going on a date. After lopping the question to his brothers and tons of holonet searches later, he decides that asking you is the best way. He wouldn't have to follow other people's standards since what seems to be important is making you happy. And so he brings it up—every date plan, every subtle question about what you want for your birthday. You help him the best you can, even encouraging him to surprise you when he can with such knowledge in his pocket. That encouragement has created several surprises from Fixer, who claims it's merely instincts and initiative, and you'd laugh—blah; he definitely loves to surprise you.

𝐔 = 𝐔𝐠𝐥𝐲

── .✦ What would be some bad habits of theirs?

Once Fixer starts heavy tinkering, his spread of tools is ridiculous. Everything's here and there, everything looks like ship spare parts that got blasted away after it got blown up. And in the middle of it all is an equally stupid amount of 6-socket power strips. With it, his comical one-gallon water bottle. Water gallon. Whatever. Hydrate during hours of tinkering or die-drate. You tripped on one of the extension cables and he had the audacity to blame you and your eyesight, which is ironic considering that he's the one wearing glasses while working.

𝐕 = 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲

── .✦ How concerned are they with their looks?

Fixer even trusts Scorch to handle scissors and clippers, but you? It's a slow, slow progress, especially since you've almost never cut other people's hair before. But since his hair isn't short, you once told him that you wanted to give it a try. Your boyfriend has ridiculously massive trust issues with other people cutting his hair that he set up cameras so he could see what you were doing. It's silly, really. He's wearing a helmet all the damn time!

𝐖 = 𝐖𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞

── .✦ Would they feel incomplete without you?

Someone asked him this once, and his answer was a simple, “I’d endure.” And, well, now that both of you have been together for some time… he wishes he could change his answer then. Every time he's away he allows himself a few minutes to think about you and miss your presence. Fixer loves the way you make him feel comfortable and ultimately, whole. He hadn't had any idea what he missed in the past, and now? He's grateful that you want him to stay and let him take care of you.

𝐗 = 𝐗𝐭𝐫𝐚

── .✦ A random headcanon for them.

His longer hair restricts 20/20 vision so most of the time (that means 1) when he's alone, 2) working privately, 3) sans helmet) Fixer would wear this headband to drag it all back. It's plain black and nothing fancy, not even an Aurebesh writing of his designation number. But Scorch (of course it's Scorch) somehow managed to gather a few of his, Sev and Boss’ stipends to buy him multiple headbands so he wouldn't have to wear and wash the same thing all the time. One of them was pink. The demo expert barely managed to duck out of the way when Fixer threw a spanner at his head.

𝐘 = 𝐘𝐮𝐜𝐤

── .✦ What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?

Stop. Talking. If it isn't necessary (except you darling you are Mon Cala opera music to his ears). Fixer loves his moments of quiet, often working with headphones in that loops his favorite synthpop album. That also means he doesn't like to be bothered unless it's about recent missions or new ones that Advisor just dropped on them. Your boyfriend also dislikes that you work excessively without catching a break (snack break, nap break, water break, fresher break—every kind of break), often scolds you on how it'd impact you and make your existing pile of stress worse.

𝐙 = 𝐙𝐳𝐳

── .✦ What is a sleep habit of theirs?

Ah, you don't like this one. Your boyfriend snores. Thankfully not as loud as a kriffing bantha, but every time you're woken up you're worried about his sinuses. When that happens, you journey to his go-bag to grab his meds and a glass of water before nudging him awake. After giving himself a shot of his medicine, Fixer then apologizes for waking you up, and thanks you for helping him. With a soft, sleepy smile, you tell him to go back to sleep, but not before adding another pillow on top of his in order to clear his airway. Fixer falls asleep  fast to your soft caresses on his cheek, and you kiss him on the forehead before turning in, waiting for the morning to come.

You suppose that you should be grateful that you’re not in pain, you think bitterly to yourself as you flex the metallic fingers of your prosthetic.

Because you had been.

For so long.

And you know that you should be happy that you have the prosthetic now, and that you’re able to move and do things again.

And that’s what you’ve been telling people. You’ve been swearing, up and down, that you’re fine. That things are fine. That they don’t have to worry about you.

But, in truth, you’re not fine.

Oh, sure, physically you’re totally healed. Or, well, as healed as you can be.

But mentally? You’re about as fragile as a piece of glass.

Every time you look at your prosthetic, you feel disgusted and angry. At yourself. At the driver of the other speeder. At the firefighters for being unable to free your arm. At the doctors for being unable to repair the damage.

It’s like a fire is burning in your chest, and no amount of talking about it or accepting what happened will put it out.

It’s infuriating.

But then, everything is infuriating right now.

You tug your sleeve down and pull your glove back on, so no one will see your prosthetic and ask questions you aren’t ready to answer, and you try to lose yourself in your book.

You have a problem.

You know you have a problem.

And you know that ignoring the problem isn’t going to make it go away.

But this problem is so much bigger than you can handle alone, so you ignore it.

You almost manage to lose yourself in your book, when the door slides open and you’re able to see Fixer entering your office.

“You look like you’re working hard,” His voice is light and teasing as he tugs his helmet off, his dark eyes soft as he watches you sit at your desk.

“For once, I don’t have any open tickets.” You reply as you set your datapad to the side, “So don’t jinx me.”

“Well, if you don’t have any open tickets, does that mean you have time to have lunch with your boyfriend?”

A tiny smile lifts your lips, some of the stress from the last couple of weeks lifting off your shoulders, “I always have time for you, Fixer.”

“Good,” He holds up a bag that you hadn’t noticed him holding, “Because I brought your favorite.”

You blink at him, “What if I had been busy?”

“I would have convinced you. You’re very easily convinced.” He crosses over to your desk and sets the bag on an open space, “Chicken pasta with garlic bread and a side salad. And, as a treat, one oatmeal chocolate chip cookie.”

“You really do spoil me.”

“As your boyfriend, it’s my job to spoil you.” Fixer replies as he sets your food in front of you, and then pulls out his own food tray.

“Then shouldn’t I spoil you too?”

“I get to spend time with you.” Fixer says, “That is spoiling me.”

“I dunno, maybe I should buy you something. A new outfit? Or dinner?” You muse thoughtfully, as you use your off hand to pick up the fork and tap the top of the food tray, “Ooh, maybe a new outfit and dinner. I get paid enough.”

Fixer doesn’t reply, his sharp eyes locked on your hand, and a frown crossing his features.

“Fixer?”

“I hate it when Scorch is right.” He says bluntly.

“...uh...I’m sorry?”

He sighs and rubs between his brows, “Cyare, you’re right handed.”

“Yes?”

“So why are you trying to eat with your left hand?”

You stare at him, and then look down at your hands, before you slowly lower the fork, “No reason.”

He sighs again and pushes his food to the side, “Cyare,”

“I don’t have to use my right hand if I don’t want to.” You say defensively.

He just watches you, his expression calm and patient, and you feel a surge of annoyance directed towards him.

“Why do you care, anyway?” You bite out.

“Because I love you, and I want you to be happy,” His words are simple, but they take all of the fight out of you, “And, cyar’ika, you’re not happy.”

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Your eyes snap to his face, and you stare at him for a moment, before you wilt under his patient gaze.

“I...I hate it. I hate my prosthetic. I hate—” You trail off, too ashamed to continue.

“It’s alright, cyare. It’s just us here.”

You slump in your seat, “I’m so angry. All of the time.” You finally admit, “At everyone.”

“You survived a trauma, love.” Fixer’s voice is gentle, “You’re allowed to be angry.”

For a moment, you feel like you’re going to cry. You can feel your eyes burning and the lump in your throat, “I’ve even been angry at you.” You admit, “And you’ve been nothing but caring.”

“That’s okay.”

“It’s not!”

Fixer takes your hands, both of them, in his, “I’m a strong guy, cyare. I can handle your anger.”

“But it’s not fair—”

He gently taps the top of your prosthetic hand, “Neither was this.”

The sob escapes you without your permission, and you try to rip your hand away from him to press it over your mouth, to stifle your grief so you might not burden him, but Fixer stops you.

Instead, he gently pulls you into his arms and allows you to cry into his neck. He gently strokes your back, “Oh, cyare,” His voice is so gentle that you hate yourself, just a little, for falling apart on him, “You’re allowed to be sad and angry. You’re allowed to feel.”

You feel his lips against the side of your head, and cling tighter to him. “My therapist said—”

“Fuck your therapist.” Fixer says against the side of your head, “He’s clearly not helping.” Slowly he strokes your back, “Be gentle with yourself, love. It’ll get easier, with time. And until it is, I’m here to help support you.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

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Little bits of carpet dig into your knees causing the slightest burn in your skin that you know will leave small indentions. Your palms are sweaty from how tight your hands are clasped behind your back, but Fixer said you couldn’t touch him until he said so, and you’re nothing if not his good girl. His hand gently cups your jaw. A stark contrast to the absolute force he’s driving his cock down your throat. You moan hungrily around him, saltiness from the precum leaking from his slit hits your tongue, and you revel in the taste of him.

He smirks down at you, dark eyes boring into yours. His naked frame is bathed in the artificial lights of Coruscant, but he glows ethereally all the same. This man who was created to kill and fight and destroy is nothing short of amazing and beautiful, and if you and your body can give him any bit of relief from the chaos he has to endure every day, then you’re more than happy to let him take from you whatever he wants.

“I haven’t even touched you yet, and you’re moaning?” he gives a breathy laugh, and you wonder how he can be so composed while you’re falling apart just from him fucking your mouth. “Do you think about me fucking you when I’m away? Do you touch yourself in the dark and moan my name when you get yourself off? I hope so, or I’ll need to do better.”

A desperate whine escapes your throat as your eyes fall shut at his words. You’ll never admit how often you’ve screamed his name in your empty apartment. Your neighbors probably think he lives here full time as many times as they’ve heard you beg and moan for him.

Fixer pulls himself from your mouth, a trail of spit from the head of his cock to your lips glistens between you. With a jerk of his head, he motions for you to stand. Knees aching and jaw sore, you rise from the floor. His lips meet yours in a crushing kiss, tongue sliding past your lips to dominate your own. Calloused hands grip your hips and guide you backward until your bare skin hits the cold glass of the window. You worry for just a brief moment about the integrity of the glass and if it will hold, but all thoughts of safety disappear as Fixer’s finger glides through your wet folds. You spread your legs a little wider for him as he sinks the digit into you. His mouth trails down your neck, nipping the sensitive skin below your ear.

“You’re already so wet for me, cyar’ika, I could take you right now,” he breathes against the shell of your ear. Goosebumps cover your skin at his words.

“Yesss. Please, please take me,” you beg him. “I’m ready for you.”

The hum he lets out vibrates through your body.

“Not yet. Just a little more.” He adds a second finger to your dripping cunt, and fucks you mercilessly with them. The curl of his fingers within you and the rhythm he’s started has your knees shaking and blood pounding in your ears. Your release builds so quickly that you think it may send you to the floor from the force of it.

But before he can ruin you with his fingers, he pulls them out of you and takes a step back.

“Turn around. Hands on the glass,” he orders. “I want all of Republic City to see who you belong to. I want them the see how good you are for me, how well you take my cock.”

You comply without hesitation and face the cityscape. If the people driving by couldn’t see you before, they will now. You must be quite something to look at. Hands pressed to the glass and your body bent to give him the best angle to enter you. His hand gently traces along the soft skin of your ass before pulling back and giving it a hard smack. The sound echoes around you as you inhale sharply.

“Such a good girl for me, mesh’la. You listen so well.” The praise falling from his mouth is like a drug that you never fail to get high on. “Let’s see if you can keep it up.”

 His fingers dance along your side as he steps directly behind you and rubs the head of his cock along your entrance. Your head drops, eyes on the floor below you at the feel of him teasing you. Gods, you wish he would put it in you already.

“Uh-uh. None of that,” he says, grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling your head back up. “I want them to see your face. I want you to watch them watch you.”

The likelihood that anyone is actually watching the two of you is slim, but you feel like they’re broadcasting all over the city like some big news headline that you’re getting fucked senseless by one of the GAR’s finest.

Pushing the tip of his cock in slowly, he moans in appreciation at the feel of your warmth stretching around him. He rubs soothing circles along your lower back as he waits for you to adjust to the size of him. You’ll never underappreciate how full you feel when he’s in you.

“You good for me to start moving?” he voice sounds strained, and you grin at the thought that he’s just as desperate for you as you are for him.

You nod. “Yes, Fixer, please.”

You catch his cocky grin in the reflection of the glass. He loves when you beg and knows exactly how to get you to make the prettiest of pleas for him. Fixer loves to tease and drag out your orgasms. You remember Sev once saying that Fixer has the most patience because of his skill at slicing. You can’t always blow something up or shoot it. Sometimes it takes a different type of skill, and Force knows that Fixer is good with his hands. You hope he’s not in a teasing mood tonight.

He holds you securely by the waist as he slams into you. Hard. He slides his hand around your front to find your clit and starts a brutal rhythm to match his thrusts into you from behind. The occasional words of praise or grunt are the only noise he makes as the lights of the city blur in front of you. Your warm breath creates little puffs of fog on the window in front of you.

You scream his name like a prayer as your orgasm rips through you like lightning. His fingers continue their merciless dance against your bundle of nerves, and the only thing keeping you standing is the arm he has wrapped around your abdomen.

“I know you have another one in you, cyar’ika,” he pants behind you. “And I’m gonna get out of you.”

Your moan fills the room as you place your hands back on the glass. Fixer plans to make sure you get the full fix of him tonight, and Force do you feel lucky for it.

Another win is that you're tasked with hunting today. The woods surrounding the compound is your arena—you had explored nearly the entirety of it in the first week here, breathing the air of the forest and the life in it. You've come from a world where your people worship forest spirits and you haven't quite forgone your beliefs. You're an excellent hunter and tracker, and that's another point in Vau's eyes.

Lord Mirdalan throws you hard glances, its golden head snarling back and forth between the buck ahead and yourself. If its teeth-baring and impatience glinting in its beady dark eyes tell you anything, it's a one word away from dashing forward in a blur, baring elongated teeth wider—deadlier, with the intent to incapacitate its game.

Your game.

“Alright alright,” you muse, gripping your bow in your hand and easing an arrow in. “I'm the one hunting, Mird’ika. I call the shots.”

The golden strill grumbles. Every blink and widening of its eyes can only indicate its mounting anxiety that their prey would run away any moment. And to be honest, yeah. Vau’s glare of disappointment flashes through your mind—he trusts you with his oldest friend—and you decide you're not going through one of those, or Sev’s bullying afterward. That man's quips are insufferable. He definitely got those from his buir.

“Yes it's your hunt too,” you whisper, as if you can read what's going through Mird’s mind. The strill lowers impossibly close to the ground upon your encouragement, ready to pounce at any given time.

Your game still fails to notice your and Mird's presence. A sparse group of ferns in front of you and hunting attire camouflage you well. Breathing in, you draw your arrow back, the coarse fletching brushes just shyly against your cheek, the sharp point zeroing in on your unsuspecting game a distance away from you. Broadside. Lungs. Heart.

Breathe out, and…

Fwt—THUCK! 

Your arrow embeds deep on its broadside—the lungs. The buck jolts, its short antlers and hooves rearing into the air before dropping onto the forest soil—dead, from what you could tell. Hopping over your cover, you go to inspect your game, poking its eyelids with your bow. No flinch. Its beady eyes dull, void of life. Killed. Becoming clan food. Maybe tonight's dinner while it's fresh. Brushing a hand across its hide, you utter a small prayer of gratitude before working to collect your killing arrow.

Baring teeth next to you, Mird throws its impeachment in a long growl as if insulting you for not calling Oya! and letting it have its way with the buck. A big bite to the neck would've been nice instead of a fatal shot! Or at least that's what it thinks. You shake your head.

“It's ethical, Mird. Quick death.” You could never. Leaving an animal to die a slow painful death at your hands is an unforgivable sin in your belief system. The least you could do to atone is a slash of your hunting dagger as soon as possible. “Not gonna be sorry about that. But sorry I topped you, though.”

Mird slaps a golden paw at your boot, its gaze still hardened, demanding for retribution.

“Fine,” you chuckle fondly, dragging a hand through its golden hide, “Let's find a couple of quails for you to snack on, then?”

You hesitate when reaching for your rope, having initially intended to tie your game by the feet and drag it all the way back home. You don't really give a damn about balding the unimpressive hide in the process—a small defeat of this hunt. Fleshing is therapeutic, but it'd take a hell lot of time to dry in the sun, something you wouldn't do in autumn’s cloudy situation.

Your options shift between that or comming one of the boys to heave it up and over their broad shoulders. Maybe there's salvation in some parts of the hide, or the skull. The antlers could be another addition to Sev's fine collection. Speaking of Sev, he can't abandon his watch post somewhere around you (you know exactly where he is), so you hold out your hope in the other three.

By your feet, Mirdalan snarls demandingly for your promised quails.

“Stand by, Mird,” you mutter, fishing your comm out of your pocket at last, “I'll comm Boss to carry this back and we'll find your quail.”

“Need some assistance with that?”

You jump at the voice, hand falling to your hunting dagger at your hip but as soon as you register it as an obscured voice filtered through a helmet, your coiled muscles relax. Your eyes flit past the autumnal umber and scarlet of the forest, easily clocking beskar approaching you in a little, if not, cautious manner.

“Fixer.”

Mird circles around his legs in greeting with its tongue out and lolling. Oh it's definitely happy, and oblivious. Fixer is one of its favorites, as far as you know. The former commando nods once in greeting at you, the T-visor of his Mando helmet shifting between you and the dead buck. “Impressive game.”

You nod in thanks, your gaze distant. Something inside you, your heart, clenches and you prefer not to dwell on it. Not now. “I'd like the help, if you don't mind.”

Fixer can hear his breath in his own helmet—can hear the disappointment vaporizing out of his body and clogging the top of his head. Hearing how you've chosen to be distant from him, putting an end to all your soft advances on him altogether—it puts him in the most uncomfortable position.

And he blames himself for that. Thinking how ridiculous and in disbelief that someone as admirable as you could find something endearing in someone like him. Him. His way to recovery after his buir and vode found him—after undergoing torture from the Empire—hadn't been smooth. There are cracks in his mind and gaps in his memory—he’s suffered. Pained. Unworthy. Broken.

But you're kind. You’re a good person. Wanting the best for everyone, wanting to help however you can after Boss found you in one of the systems in the Outer Rim escaping slavery. You're forever in their debt. You're strong. In a way, both of you are similar. Wal’buir is clearly fond of you, but somehow for Fixer it wasn't enough.

He doesn't deserve you.

“I don't mind,” he finally says, tapping the tips of his gloved fingers against his thigh plate in near nervousness. He observes the buck again, helmet tilting downward. “Heading home?”

You ignore the way your heart clenches again at the word home. You live under the same roof with them, and that's just it. It too reminds you of the pain—the way Fixer never acknowledged you with more than a slight tilt of his head when you strolled past. Never more than a blink and few words when you smiled up at him, your chest warming at, simply, the sight of him. How much of a survivor he was, every scar telling you a story of perseverance.

So yeah, if only your feelings are reciprocated. It hurt that it never became something more. Even Scorch's teasing as your unofficial wingman wasn't helping—Fixer always shut it down before he could give it a chance to bloom and probably spark something in him, and then Boss looked at you apologetically every time it happened. You hate it. It embarrassed you, moreso when Vau knew. You have zero idea what they're saying in their stern and scolding Mando'a conversations, and you're hurt and embarrassed enough to bet on a correct guess.

You sigh heavily as you shoulder your bow. “You go ahead. I'm getting quails for Mird.” Pivoting on your heels, you travel deep into the woods, Vau's six-legged strill already waltzing ahead. You pause, the weight in your chest heavy and cold when you barely look over your shoulder, the words next coming out of you sounding equally cold and distant. “Thanks, Fixer.”

The former commando stares at your retreating figure, fists clenched by his side without him realizing. A long exhale rattles his helmet's speakers. He relaxes his fists, shoulders wilting when you've completely disappeared from the subject identifier of his HUD.

“Didn't that go well.”

Sev's footfalls are heavy, fallen leaves crunch under his boots, and the barrel of his sniping blaster rifle lies on one red-painted shoulder bell. Fixer's chest tightens—Sev’s been watching. Of course. Probably from binocs, most likely perching so still on his post up top on a tree under half-assed ghillie suit.

“Shouldn’t you be on your post?”

“Boss' turn.” And his turn with the crops. Somewhere in their domestic life Boss has turned into a passionate farmer through and through—suppose it's the Vhett genes getting the best of him. Sev studies the game, precisely at the broadside wound, his buy'ce bobbing ever so slightly in approval. You and Sev along with Vau share the love for game hunting. He looks up at Fixer, slinging the rifle across his body, and squats. “Go after them. I volunteer.”

Panic rises in him. He's not ready. He's not ready for another cold shoulder from you. “I'll let them be for now—”

“No you won't, di’kut. Can't stand the tension back at the yaim. You'll finish this,” Sev jabs a finger at him. “Meanwhile I'll tell Wal’buir where you’ve gone.”

“You won't.”

“Thin ice, Fix’ika.” Sev nods his buy’ce at the direction where you've gone. “Do something about it. You're here to mend it.”

It's not even a question followed by an aren't you? directed at him—it’s a statement. Encouragement. Or Sev's version of encouragement. Baffled by his own initial intentions that he's completely forgotten and the thunderstorm of conflicts brewing inside of him, words are caught in his throat. Fixer says nothing in return, and he can feel an eyebrow lift from his vod.

Sev snorts, lifting the buck over his shoulders with ease. “Sounds like I'm right this time.”

Then he's alone.

Nothing but the sound of nature around him, and his own thoughts.

Nothing but moving forward. So, he does. The forest blurs around him as he nearly absently follows your trail.

The opportunity has been presented, the chance given. Well, by Sev. More like a push rather than a generous chance, really. You didn't look like you're giving him a chance. You gave him a lot, but he brushed you off every single time.

Wasted.

Fixer can almost hear the threat coming from Sev, something like watch me being a sheb’spalon for an entire week if you both aren't coming out of the treeline smiling and looking lovesick with each other that'd make Wal’buir gag. Exaggerated threats, but might happen. Sev doesn't back down from his threats. That man had chosen the glaring red color for his commando armor for a reason.

After his rescue, once a former medic trainee, you came to him in the compound's infirmary every rotation, never missing one. Helping to check his vitals with Boss' help, always talking so softly because sounds annoyed his broken mind and broken body at the time, always making sure he had some calories in him. You took care of him. Scorch had teased you about being his private nurse, but you let out this deep belly laughter and said you'd rather be a hunting nomad instead, and that was the day you began to tell stories of your homeworld to comfort him. Or at least, what you could remember of its beauty. You escaped slavery in the Outer Rim. You were scarred. Just like him.

That also was the day he began to feel something. Something foreign. Something that made a connection between you and himself. Something that made him think about you when you weren't in the room with him. Something that made him long for you.

After he got back on his feet, you too helped him adjust with his new life, together with his vode, away from the Empire. You started going a little easier around him, no longer treating him like a fine fragile vase but just like any other of his brothers. You treat all of them equally, and you respect Vau. That's enough for him. So much value already. That should be enough for him to trust you fully now that he's got ahold of his mind and body. Right?

Yeah. But then you were doing that again. Speaking to him a little softer, gentler, than with the others. Your eyes gleaming when you smiled at him, somehow finding himself in your company. He knew what was going on. Not that it wasn't pleasant. He just doesn't deserve you. Didn't.

“Kandosii, Mird’ika!”

Your faint voice makes him stop in his trek. That's you. You sound happy. You belong. You love nature. It's a part of your belief. You value life—human life. He heard you sneaking into the infirmary late at night. Adjusting his pillows, tucking him in, patting his hand in reassurance, whispering get well soon’s that didn't sound empty, uttering a small prayer to your deities for his health in your native tongue.

Something about it is… private. Intimate, even. Important. Is he? Important? Significant? Like the amount of encrypted data he had sliced and obtained in the past?

Special. You deemed him special. Emphasis on deemed. Conflicts swallowed him so much that he turned a blind eye on you. Fixer wishes he could've had his eyes on you when your first frown of realization rests on your brows. It was too late for him. Maybe it could've been different. Maybe he could've mended it—changed himself and talked about it at last.

Why did he come here? He came for you. He's supposed to be at the workshop right now, but he raced against time and finished ahead of schedule once he heard his chance—you, alone, doing your errands. Might be a perfect time, maybe not. Because you've been avoiding him too. Gone has the glimmer in your eyes. Enter the cold shoulder and fake enthusiasm. You’re still being nice and polite as usual, but that's your baseline. There's no longer… closeness. That bond. The bond that you have built. You alone. He wasn't even trying. He wasn't present.

It is, perhaps the first time in years, the time he curses himself at a loss. Such a loss.

Yet unbeknownst to him, it's hurting you too. How does it feel trying to be, at the very least, nice for someone you once had a crush on? Drowned in shame for believing someone like Fixer could've reciprocated your feelings. You believed in him. He sounded amazing from what his brothers told you. Talented. Thorough. Appreciative. Careful. Methodical. Maybe you pushed your luck too far. He needed healing. Much longer, much more, more time. You know how it felt to be a tortured soul. You were one, anyway. So you stepped away. It was stupid. You were doing the right thing.

Crossing the stream, Mirdalan is obviously resisting to chomp deeper into the two quails you just shot as it brought them back to you. You insisted, with a little silly argument with the strill. The least you can do is plucking the feathers before Mird can enjoy its snack of pure meat and bones and no feathers.

With the birds still warm, it's quite easy. Mird takes time to devour them. After rinsing your hands with the current of the stream, you take your time to rest for a while, making a particular smooth rock your seat as you gaze out into the trees, which now mostly are barren of leaves. Autumn usually calms your mind—you love autumn—but now it's occupied with Fixer's situation.

The rustling of the thicket behind you prompts you to grab your bow and nock an arrow in less than two seconds. Fixer reveals himself, his hands free of the blaster strapped to his thigh and are raised meaning you no harm. No harm alright, but seeing him… hurts still. Your heart has been racing in your chest and shows no sign of calming down, but you try your best to collect yourself.

“Don't sneak up on me when I've got these with me,” you remind him, stashing your bow and arrow away. Mird seems undisturbed, its loud chewing filling what seems to be a bubble between the three of you. “You could've been mistaken for a beast. And shot.”

Fixer tilts his head. “You know this forest, though. Heard from Scorch you explored the entirety of it in a week.”

“Nearly,” you correct him.

He watches you. “Well. Are there any beasts?”

You put a relief in your tense muscles. “Not that I've encountered.” Shaking your head, you're unable to help the brief little smirk on your lips. “Not that I want to anyway.”

He catches that. The smallest lift of the corner of your lips. But your eyes look as they've always been for the past time—mirthless, in which the smile doesn't quite reach your eyes, and filled with void smugness.

Fixer warily brings himself closer, his hands falling to his side. You watch his movement, willing yourself to just calm down and maybe not throwing a punch across his face. Or helmet. That's made of beskar. Yeah, no.

You clench and unclench your bare fists, leaning your backside against the rock in another attempt to make yourself (appear) relaxed. His broad commando stature approaches you carefully, settling just a few feet away. The tip of his boots graze the grass that adorns the side of the stream, T-visor methodically sweeping the area—either to take in the view, or scanning for any hostiles out of habit.

Finding nothing to look at, you watch Mird instead. One quail gone, the other now gnawed between its maw.

“I've hurt you.”

Your attention turns to Fixer. You wish you could tell the storm of emotions that's brewing under his helmet—just a little glimpse that would've allowed you to feel a little bit more smug.

“You have,” you say.

Fixer manages not to recoil when you cross your arms. Not a good sign. Was that a horrible way to start at all? He just spat out what's been running around his mind. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. He's hurt you. A man of few words nowhere near Scorch, he wishes you can just understand. But he has to talk. Conveying his… feelings. You have no idea what's going through his mind and he doesn't want to be stuck in this hellhole forever—all he wants now is to see you looking at him again with the kind of joy that he knows—so he needs to talk.

“I understand if my actions have implied distaste toward you,” he starts, tension creeping up his shoulders. “I understand too that you're angry. You have every right to, because I was… I was being an asshole.” Great, now he's using Sev's words. “You’re hurt, and I didn't mean that. Never meant to.”

You swallow. This is the day you'd hope to come—although a moment too late. “But why did you?”

The question is confrontational, a little wavering if he trusts his audio receptors, but he can still hear the hurt in your voice, demanding for answers.

“I didn't know what to do about it. I was confused,” Fixer confesses. He stares down at his hands. “I was still recovering and you just showed so much kindness. You didn't even know me, but you cared.”

You open your mouth to intervene but he continues.

“You oversaw me. Took care of me. It was too much, I couldn't… I can't act otherwise but telling you how grateful I am. I never meant to push you away. I never meant to ignore you.” These are all messy, flurry of thoughts that he’d just spill, as if written down in points and he's stuck to explaining with it, no longer calculating and methodical with his approach. This is a foreign territory for him, you realize, and this is a show of weakness in the shape of dilemma. “I wanted to welcome you. I just didn't know how,” Fixer tries, his voice grows softer, “I'm… scared. If I misstep and everything comes crashing down.”

He offers his hope high up into the sky. He wants you to teach him how. He hopes you're there to navigate his path while holding his hand and because, Manda, he wants to know how that feels too, again, with something more etched deep in your hearts—not just to comfort him and ease his pain as a friend, no.

As something more.

“I don't think I could handle it. If I lose you.” He's mistepped. He's made everything crashing down on him. The weight of the guilt is not as heavy as beskar on his body. “But I already did, didn't I?”

Your next breath of air into your lungs is sharp, through the teeth, as you take in his confession. A revelation—a light, a beacon of hope in your soul reignited. Though you're unable to see him, empathy engulfs your judgement swifter than your arrow. His words, spilled out, as if he's already defeated, and as if whatever remains of your tattered bond that hadn't broken and vanished yet, you never want to hear him pained like this again.

Softly, you take a deep breath. “You didn't lose me.” Your exhale comes a little unstable. “It was just difficult to look at you, Fixer. I thought you didn't want any of this.”

“I couldn't be certain,” says his strained voice. Raising his hand, he taps the side of his helmet. “There was a lot to process back then.”

“I know,” you sigh, an apology for your impatience and enthusiasm back then is already on the tip of your tongue.

“You are so kind. You didn't even know me,” Fixer stresses, again, his T-visor staring blankly into you. But his cadence doesn't lie. He takes one step closer to you. You don't flinch. Then one more. And one more. Until he's only a couple feet away from you. His confidence burns bright and he can feel it—you can feel it. “Why?”

“You’re one of them. You know my history, if not most of it, and I owe your aliit so much,” you explain with confidence, “I was my village's medic trainee. You need all the help you can get to full recovery, either physically or mental.”

“And by falling in love with me too?”

If anything, his tone is no longer confrontational but amused. The weight on his shoulders slowly but surely lifts, and a puff of airy laughter escapes his lips when you sigh, almost exasperatedly and caught off guard by his harmless question, and darker colors begin to envelop your cheeks.

“You know that these things happen… sometimes naturally,” you try to reason despite flushed to bashfulness, throwing your gaze away from his scrutiny. Fixer raises both eyebrows. Somehow you must know what expression he's making under the helmet, he thinks, because you're looking at him again.

With nothing but Mird's low growls and the trickling stream as the sounds enveloping your bubble, his focus zeroes in to how the cool sun makes your skin and hair glow. He can almost see your beauty blending with nature itself, catching just how much your love toward it is reflected. Your big heart, your ceaseless care toward life. You're a gem, rare to the world, moreover in what the world has become now.

And you're choosing him, out of all people. Not even his own brothers. Him.

You breathe in your confidence again, fully believing that he is here, now, for you. The distance between the two of you is a slight lean away to be completely closed, and your chest thrums at the prospect. And so you take Fixer’s hand with both of yours, his balled fist falling apart upon your touch and his glove warming your cool hand.

“Naturally, hm?” he muses.

You grin. “You have manuals to go through first before seeing where this is gonna go?”

His helmet sways a little as if he's rolling his eyes. “I don't need a manual to navigate through this.”

Before another quip escapes you, Fixer grabs both your shoulders and leans his buy’ce against your forehead. Your eyes widen at the unexpected notion, and you're certain he can see, through his visor, your whirlwind of emotions flashing in your eyes—and really, so he does. You have no idea how fluttery his chest is, how wide his smile is, and how relieved he is somehow—he can't explain it—but there they all are.

You want to kiss him, and oh how badly you want to kiss him. But you can't just ask him to take his helmet off. He probably doesn't want to anyway—that's why he initiated the lingering kov’nyn, right? This will suffice for now. Having Fixer finally close to you—with you—the heat of his body and the material of his flight suit pressing into you… it’s more than enough.

“Fixer…” you murmur, your lungs feeling so heavy and light at the same time that you're about to float.

“Cyar’ika,” he returns, “Is this… okay?”

Despite your blush at the boldly said pet name, you hold in a snort, staring deep into his visor, hoping to meet his eyes behind as best as you can. “You said you didn't need any manuals.”

A pause. You're about two seconds too late to realize why he's reaching up to the edge of his helmet and before you know it, he's taking it off.

Fixer is handsome. His unruly curls are kissing his skin just above his eyebrows, and he smells like aftershave. White-lined scars from his time under the Empire's unforgiving hold on him litter across his face, the soft lines on his face and the amber in his eyes always seem to carry such a weight. Such a pain. Nevertheless his will to live and see his brothers again was stronger than his will to die in an Imperial hellhole. Either his clone programming or Vau’s teachings—Fixer’s strength to endure, will to heal, and overall steadfastness is obvious. 

And so with such unsaid adoration, you close the distance between you by grabbing his face and pressing your lips against his—his helmet drops to the forest floor with a thud. Gently at first as you realize you've rendered him frozen, but Fixer winds both hands around you to pull you impossibly closer before returning the gesture with a sigh.

He feels and tastes like everything you could've ever imagined about him. He's careful as he kisses you, his lips dry but not cracked and becoming moistened as you attempt to quench your passionate hunger.

Your mind is fully awake as you tread carefully, following his level of comfort, running your fingers up and down softly along his cheek. Sparks continuously burst inside you as he moves his mouth against yours with vigor, as if something inside him bursts open, opening in the slightest bit in an attempt to discover how he'd like the softness of your bottom lip. A quiet, breathless noise escapes you, and just then your longtime crush pulls away, both of you gasping for air—each other's air again, eventually—the sparks in both of your eyes are now shining brighter.

“That was…” he trails off, speechless.

“Incredible,” you breathe, your wide pleased grin invites his own. The handsome sight tugs you to refrain yourself from kissing him senseless again right there and then.

“Mm,” he hums in agreement.

You tease him, “Not bad for someone who hadn’t got the time to go through the manuals.”

Chuckling, Fixer goes to gently cup the sides of your face, laying a peck to your lips that would definitely swell had he continued but he doesn't, before smiling at you. A painfully soft, sincere smile. You watch on, as you commit the lovely view to memory, as he says, “Thank you.”

“What for?” you frown, amused. “The kiss? You know you don't need to. We wanted that, and we still do.”

“Yeah, but not only that.” Fixer looks at you lovingly. “For everything.”

divider by me!

Taglist: @yoursrosie @hellfiresky @filamentlights @heidnspeak @lucyysthings @emmaw18 @leiopython-rat

Delta Squad Taglist (lmk to join!): @mutilatemyheart @alor-ika

Also tagging @leafdupe and @pichiflu-draws the fellow Fixer's Bitches 👀💚

A/N: You can request for x reader in my askbox! If you're interested in my clone x reader oneshots you can sign up as well to be tagged of future works. (Link provided ⬆️)

Slamming the taxi door close, Fixer wastes no time to dash toward the lobby of your apartment, not even wanting the rain soak him inside out. He punches the keycode like it's nature, having it memorized and placed it right after the numbers of his and his brothers’ designation. He doesn't falter toward the elevator and presses your floor button.

The wait is excruciating. It gets even worse when the elevator has to stop twice on the way. His hand grasping his duffel is sweating, and without the comfort of his helmet he has to withhold his loud sigh.

Then your apartment door. Fixer's mind is crowded with concern, barging through once he's clumsily slammed his entire hand onto the fingerprint scanner.

Beep.

Your shelf partition filled with knickknacks greet him in the face first as he kicks off his boots—he always finds that photo of a smaller you adorable. And beyond said shelf, is the star of the show; lying on the couch wrapped in blanket, looking miserable that something inside him breaks, apparently fallen ill again just right after you've recovered from the previous flu. But you don't seem asleep—merely resting your eyes.

Hearing the noise, you crack one eye open. “Hi,” you say, relief flooding your voice although you're not moving an inch but Fixer can hear just so.

“Cyare.” For a split second the view of his most terrifying nightmare comes true, but he reminds himself again. The door closes behind him, the holomessage of your miserable situation that you'd sent him ringing through his head. And he's unimpressed. “Really. Seriously?”

You grunt, throwing the blanket over you head. “Don't bully me,” you complain crankily, your voice muffled. “Had enough of that living with my parents. Why do you think I'm delaying telling anyone?”

“Sorry.” If there's a restart engine inside him, he'd already be turning it on. Fixer steps closer to you, and you're grateful your nose is clogged. His duffle drops onto the floor beside him as you hear him just merely inches away. His hand gently slips under the blanket to feel your forehead. “You don't seem to have a fever.”

“M’just cold. I'm barely breathing through one nostril.” You let him peel the blanket off the top half of your body, and you immediately shiver. “Weather outside isn't helpin’.”

But the sight of him brings a huge wave of relief into you. Fixer's home, alive and unharmed yet exhausted from another mission to see and fight another day and care for you. Just as he's doing right now. The bags under his eyes are nearly prominent and his hair is greasy, but concern and love are etched onto his features, mismatched blue and honey brown eyes ready to cure and warm you up if they could.

“Maybe you should get that premium weather forecast subscription,” your boyfriend quips, trimmed fingernails tenderly brushing your hair away from your face. “Helps you prepare. Decide when you will yourself to fall sick.”

“Why would I do that when clearly commando-sized home-cooked meals with triple protein serving are more important?”

“Thank Manda for that,” he deadpans, but the affection in his eyes remains, hands busy unzipping his duffle and fishing out his medpack. “Have you eaten?”

“What I could,” you answer with a weak nod.

Fixer examines a couple of vials. “And that was?”

“About an hour ago, I think.”

“The food, my love. What did you eat?”

“Sandwich,” you mention, “Lettuce and cold nuna cuts.”

Fixer hums. “Cheese?”

“Mm-m,” you shake your head.

He's staring at you with mock amazement. “Pantry inventory saved.”

“Shut up,” you huff, making grabby hands at him. “Gimme the good stuff already.”

He snorts at your wording. “I should put you in cuffs for dealing illegal drugs.”

“You mean for something else when I'm back as your healthy and annoying cyare,” you weakly joke, clearly not in the mood but you made it anyway. “And you’re the drug supplier.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in some sort of a brief smile. It's merely a second before his brows crease in concentration to calculate a dose, since obviously you shouldn't take the same as how clones take one. His hand plunges into his small medpack again, and when it returns with a needle, you've only just realized that the bottle in his hand is too small for usual oral medications.

“We're never given pills,” Fixer says suddenly, as if reading your mind. “Always shots. Cures and keeps us immune from it much longer that way.” Admiringly, you watch his hands at work—the skilful fingers of a tech and comms expert—tearing open a packet of syringe after wiping his hand with antiseptics. “We usually take these right before deployment.”

You frown. “That's terrible.”

“It's efficient.” Putting on a pair of gloves, Fixer glances at you expectantly. “Top off, please.”

You oblige by sitting up, sharp pain shoots through your head that you grimace. Damned flu. For a moment you notice that even though he's waiting for you in silence, Fixer is guilty for being unable to help you, his gloves already on and syringe ready.

“What if one of you is scared of needles?” you ask, trying to ignore your headache as you tug your hoodie off.

“Therapy,” he answers curtly.

“They give you that for free?”

Fixer chews on his tongue. “I don't want this conversation to turn political.”

You scoff, sitting upright to signal him that you're ready. “Always like that, isn't it?”

A breathy laugh escapes him—a dry one, but welcomed anyway. Within a minute, your boyfriend wipes a little patch of your arm and draws the anti-flu immune booster drug from the vial before injecting it into your system. You barely feel the pain—you know to trust him and his meticulousness completely. It's really something you're grateful for, aside from him being an overall great guy who's willing to take a bolt to the chest for you.

Fixer yanks his gloves off and chucks everything into the yellow clinical waste bag, the view of you rolling your neck and carding your hair through your scalp are running in the background as he's tidying up. 

“You sure you didn't give me too much?” you ask, your nasally voice already fading away. “Did you read the side effects?”

Fixer blinks at you, the pitter-patter of rain against your windows loud in the silence. “No.”

“Stop messing around,” you scowl, inviting a pleased smirk from him that's so smug you almost sock him in the face for that.

“You'll be fine, cyare. In no time. Promise you that.” He's wiped his hands again for good measure before drawing you in with both hands on your shoulders and placing a loving kiss on your forehead. “Calculated the dose beforehand. So don't you worry.”

You watch him get up to bin the yellow waste bag in the kitchen. “Fix?”

“Yes?” He briefly turns to you before disappearing down the corridor.

“Can we cuddle after you shower?”

A charming, reassuring smile completes his features. Though they're battle-hardened, and there seems to be a new faint line of aging after every mission. Exhaustion and constant vigilance do so much to a commando such as your boyfriend, but you can't deny that you feel safe. There's just so much reassurance that can't go unacknowledged, and you are happy.

“Of course, love.”

Fixer smells like his favorite body wash once he steps out of the fresher, the stench of war banished from his person.

And now, in the domesticity of your dwelling, the most vulnerable part of him remains. The most inner shell of him and you've gotten to have it come undone. His exhaustion intensifies, his body heat radiating through your clothes as you lay your head on top of his bare chest. The rain remains the loudest thing you hear aside from his heartbeat, and as is the cool air that you can feel on your skin.

“I'm so glad you're home,” you mumble sleepily into his chest, relishing his bared warmth. “I don't know what I'd do if you don't get to come back.”

His fingers trail up and down your spine absently, and he's staring at the ceiling thinking over your words. “I’m sure you could do well on your own,” he mutters, perhaps mostly to reassure himself.

“But you know I love you, right?” You raise your head to meet his gaze as sharply as you can, and for a moment Fixer thinks he's said something wrong. “Nothing would change that, Fixer.”

His hand drifts into the back of your head, not pulling your hair but keeping your lips in place as he slightly rises to meet them with his own. “I love you,” he mutters against your lips, one strong arm wrapping around you with much vigor. “This, cyare, is one of the things I look most forward to after we accomplish mission after mission.”

“Then you know you'll have to come out there alive.”

“Of course.” Fixer pecks you lips again, and again, until he keeps them there for a few more seconds that you've almost given in before he pulls away, seemingly unaware of what his now warm moistened lips and lowered voice are doing to you. “Who would love you and sneak immune booster shots for you, anyway?”

“Sneak?” you mock-gasp. “So much for Mister We Abide By Manuals.”

Fixer watches you with amusement dancing in his eyes, noting how he's injected a correct dose into you after all, with no side effects. He makes a slight movement similar to a shrug. “Technically no rules about bringing spares.”

You hum, leaning in. “Breaking rules, aren't we?”

His smile blooms into a full grin against your lips. He kisses you again, proud of his work yet again, and he's kissing you a tad harder than before.

“I've broken tons of ‘em when I chose to be with you, anyway.”

Thank you for reading! Taglist is moved to event masterlist.

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You sit on your knees at the end of the dock, peering down into the ocean beneath you as if staring will allow you to see the locket that you just yote into the depths.

It was an accident.

A series of accidents, even.

Your flip-flop snapped, causing you to lose your balance. And then, while you were struggling to keep from falling into the ocean, you got tangled in a rope that had been left on the dock. The rope twisted around both of your legs and you fell face first on the dock.

The bruised forehead, bloody nose, and scraped palms and knees are not the important things. Neither are the rope burns around both of your ankles.

No.

The important this is that your grandmother’s locket, a locket you inherited from your grandmother’s estate and had been holding since the clasp broke a little bit ago, fell from your hand, bounced on the pier, and then—

PLOP!

Into the ocean it fell.

You wrap your hands around the edge of the dock and lean further out, frantically scanning for any sign of the locket. Because, if you don’t find it, your mother might actually kill you.

Or worse.

She’ll sigh and say, “Why can’t you be more careful?” And be all disappointed.

And everyone knows that’s worse.

There’s a glimmer of something that might be the silver of the locket, and you lean out a little further, your eyes narrowing as you try to make out what you’re seeing.

You really, really should know better.

Just when you’re able to make out that the glitter is, in fact, your grandmother’s locket, your hands slip out from under you. And you, who had been leaning farther out over the water than you intended, find yourself toppling, head first, into the ocean.

SPLASH!

You’re a little dazed for half a second, the ocean is freezing after all, but after that you follow the bubbles and surface with a sputtering cough as you try to catch your breath.

This is just your luck, isn’t it?

Well, since you’re already here, might as well dive down to look for the locket, right?

Oh! But first, you need to toss your remaining flip-flop back up on the dock. You reach down to pull your shoe off, only to blink down at your bare feet. When did you lose your other sandal?

You look around for a moment, trying to spot the pale pink sandal and then you give up. It’s probably still on the dock, right? That would make sense.

Besides, they were on sale for a couple of cents at the local beach shack.

You tread water for a moment, your gaze locked on the glimmer of silver you can still see, and you’re about to dive down to see if it’s the lost locket when something hard bounces off the back of you head, and your foam sandal lands in the water next to you.

“Ow…”

“Why would you throw your shit in the ocean? The fuck is wrong with you?”

You twist in the water, already puffing up indignantly, though you falter when you see the man in the water behind you.

Why?

Well, because he’s clearly a merman. The dark green scales on his neck and across his chest, plus the green and white tail you can see in the water, make it very obvious.

“Obviously I fell in, dick.” You counter as you fling your shoe at his face. Sure, he might be a merman, but you’re clearly hurt. Anyone with eyes could tell that you didn’t mean to lose your shoe.

He arches a dark brow, “Yes. I saw. It was very graceful.” He throws the shoe back at you. Or, you think he is, but the shoe sails over your head and lands on the dock.

You feel your face burn, “Yeah…well…” You don’t actually have an excuse, so you turn away from him, “I’m busy. Go away.”

“Busy?”

“I have to find my locket.”

He sighs heavily, “You threw more trash in my home?”

Your head snaps towards him, “I didn’t throw it! I tripped!”

He stares at you, “I thought you humans were meant to be good at using your legs.”

“...I’m better at walking than you are.”

He rolls his eyes, “You’re better at using limbs that I don’t have. Well done.” He shakes his head, “Wait here.”

You watch as he dives into the water, and you’re pretty sure that he intentionally splashes you with his tail, and then he surfaces a little away from you, your locket held between his fingers.

“My locket!” You swim over to him to take the locket from him, but he moves his arm out of reach, “Hey!” You set one of your hands on his shoulders and reach up his arm to try and take your locket back.

“You can only have this back, if you come and hang out with me tomorrow morning.”

You blink at him, twice, “What?”

“I said,” He repeats, “You can only have this back if you come and hang out with me tomorrow morning.”

“Here?”

“No. There’s a cove not far from here, we can meet there. That way you won’t have to worry about falling in.”

You scowl at him, “Fine. You have a deal. Now, let me have my locket back—” You yelp when he suddenly lowers his arm and you lose your balance, “—you did that on purpose.”

“Oh? Did I?” He sounds innocent, but there’s a mischievous grin on his face, “I’m Fixer, I’ll see you in the morning. Be more careful, I might not be here to help you next time.”

“Fuck you.”

It’s the start of a slightly odd, but a solid friendship.

After that first meeting the next morning, you find yourself making the trek to the cove every morning, rain or shine.

And, after several months of this, you realize that you look forward to seeing Fixer. Not only look forward, but that your day is better if you can start it with meeting him. And if you aren’t able to see him, you get grouchy.

The week he ignored you after you went on a date with a family friend was like hell. But he was all rainbows and sunshine when you told him that you and the family friend didn’t work out at all.

You’d never assume anything about Fixer, but you know jealousy when you see it.

But you never mention it to him. And he never mentions it to you. It’s something that the both of you just never talk about.

And then, before you know it, a year has gone by.

It’s summer again, and you’re lounging on a rock in the ocean, dressed in your favorite bikini, relaxing in the sun. Fixer had been more than happy to bring you out here, since it means that he’s able to lounge in the sun with you.

“I still can’t believe you parade around in this,” Fixer says as he absently rubs sunblock on your chest. You could do it, but he seems to enjoy the feel and scent of sunblock, so you let him massage the lotion into your skin.

Plus, he has nice hands.

“I’m hardly parading.” You reply without opening your eyes, “It’s only us here.”

“It barely covers anything,” Fixer counters, “And they’re only held on by knots. There’s no way you could swim in this.”

“They’re not for swimming. They’re for tanning and looking good.”

Fixer’s hands stop high on your ribs, just under your bikini top, “Tanning? Won’t you have lines from this?” He asks as he hooks a finger under your top.

“Well, it’s not like anyone other than me sees me naked, Fixer.” You say as you sit up slightly and lift your sunglasses to the top of your head, “Though, the tan lines can be annoying.”

“So take it off,”

You blink at him, “You know, sometimes you say things that make me think you just want to see me naked.”

He grins at you, “I think human clothes are stupid. And that you’ll look much better without them.”

You shake your head, and lay back again, pulling your sunglasses down over your eyes, “Do what you like, Fixer. I trust you.”

“I’m flattered,” You feel his fingers move to the string holding your bikini top on, and you’re not the least bit surprised when he swiftly removes both your top and your bottom, “There. Now you won’t have any tan lines.” But you can feel his gaze sweeping across your bare body.

“...I can feel you staring.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound very sorry though. “So,” His fingers linger on your hip, “Am I the first person to see you naked?”

“Yup.”

Fixer doesn’t say anything in response, but he starts rubbing small circles on your lower stomach with his thumb. And you can feel the smugness radiating off him.

“Don’t be so smug, Fixer.”

“Can’t help it.” His hands drift down your legs, and you feel your lips curl up. He’s always been fascinated by your legs, “Look at you, you’re covered in bruises. What happened this time?”

“I fell up the stairs,” You pause, “And then back down again.”

He sighs, and you twitch slightly when you feel his lips against your shin, “You know, I’m starting to think that you’re just not made for life on land.”

“Well, tragically, I was born human—”

“You don’t have to stay that way.” Fixer interrupts, you open your eyes as you feel him move so he’s leaning over you, his hands pressed to the rock next to your head, “There are ways to make you a mermaid, if you wanted.”

The way he’s looking at you makes your heart skip a beat, and for the first time, you have to acknowledge that your feelings for him are much more than just friendship.

But you also have to acknowledge that his feelings for you are more than friendship.

Slowly you reach up and press your hands against his cheeks, “My clumsiness is part of my charm.”

“You’re charming even when you’re not clumsy.” He counters, his eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “I’ve seen you in the water, you’re so graceful and peaceful. In a way that you aren’t on land.”

You hesitate, “I’m afraid.” You finally admit.

“Of what?”

“What if you get tired of having me around—”

“I would never.” Fixer counters firmly. There’s something soft in his gaze, “I picked you months ago.”

“I—” You trail off and then laugh softly, “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“It makes me think you’re in love with me.”

“Would that be so bad?” He leans in slightly so his lips are hovering just over yours, “I see how you look at me, and I know you see how I look at you—”

“I just don’t want you to have any regrets.”

He doesn’t answer you verbally. Instead he closes the distance between your lips and his and presses the gentlest kiss you’ve ever experienced against your lips. “How could I regret you?” He whispers against your lips.

“Fixer—” You trail off, and then you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a proper kiss. There are so many things you want to say to him, but the words seem trapped on your tongue.

“Do you love me?” He whispers against your lips.

“Yes.”

“Yes what? Use your words.” Fixer effortlessly pins your hands to the rock next to your head, and your face burns with slightly flustered embarrassment. You really need to stop reading those harlequin novels, they’re putting ideas in your head.

“Yes, I love you.” You manage to get out.

He grins at you, and kisses you deeply, “I love you too.”

“Oh, that—that’s good.”

He laughs and threads his fingers with yours, “You’re adorable. I’m going to spend the next couple of hours kissing you, and then we can talk about how to make you a mermaid.”

“Won’t you get bored?”

His grin turns into a smirk, “I have a lot of area to work with.”

It’s a warning. It’s a promise.

And you can’t wait to see what he has in store.

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“Those soldiers in stupid armor thinking that while standing inside a castle they could find comfort and privacy in the midst of tending to the fire in each other's companions.” You’re smirking and swinging your legs. “Merry talking and awful gossip about the high lords and ladies. And what I heard is… bedazzling.”

Fixer gives you a deadpanned look. “You found the dragon nonsense bedazzling.”

“Ah! So that's supposed to be a piece of meaningless gossip, then?”

He groans, tossing the piece of graphite he's using onto the tabletop. “It’s gossip.” Then he decides the sketching could be picked up later, his gaze turning to you sharply as he crosses his arms. “Every gossip is mostly nothing for the ear—they only satisfies you temporarily.”

Your smirk grows, and you point your canteen at him. “You said all that to my face while you run a tight intelligence network under everyone's noses.”

Damn you. You got him. These banters are killing him—not only are you looking somewhat teasing and creating unspeakable tension between you at most times, but both of you have been sharing your fondness of each other with all the straightforwardness in the world.

He tries to hide his grin but fails.

The realization shines in your eyes. “What an absolute liar,” you muse, grinning fully. “Unimportant gossip, my arse. Information is power. It gives you power—knowing other people's secrets.”

Fixer suddenly swings his legs over the bench to stand. The sudden movement catches you off guard, your lips part at the full sight of him. His apron is still on his person, and his longish curls a mess. Rounding the table as he approaches you, his mismatched brown and aquamarine eyes are set upon you before to the discreet canteen filled with wine in your hand.

“Even if it's about a dragon?”

You gulp at his closeness. “It gives you the satisfaction of… knowing,” you say, unable to bring your mind to skip from one stone to another in the river of your thoughts. “I get it. We're living under sovereignty. Power means everything. Power to at least relieve yourself of the suffocation. And you need all that you can get.”

Fixer gently takes the canteen out of your grasp. His hands, free of his heavy smithing gloves, brush against your skin momentarily.

“Play the game with all the brains and wisdom and heart that you have,” you manage to continue, your voice almost a murmur, “And you'll win.”

He hums, examining the contents inside the canteen. “You really are philosophical. So many fancy words.”

You scoff. “I just put dots together. Do you know I write poetry?”

“No wonder,” Fixer says without missing a beat. His eyes find you again. “Are you somehow a bastard to a nobleman? You certainly speak like one.”

Then he stumbles back, chuckling, as you've playfully shoved his shoulder. “I’m going to take a day off to ponder whether that was a compliment or an insult,” you laugh, kicking at his behind. With the reflexes of a soldier, Fixer swerves away from another strike to the chest and is near you again—much closer this time. “Do you think I want to be pampered like one of those lords and ladies?”

“No, but…” He shrugs. “You could.”

“But I don't want to,” you roll your eyes. “I enjoy rough work and being actually useful. Making things that people use. Making things that people would thank me for, even if it's unsaid. I'm sure you're familiar with the feeling.”

It feels like time passes so slowly as he searches for the truth in your countenance. And he finds it swiftly. Fixer recognizes your endeavors and commendable results, and he knows of your starting story. You were young when the royal arrangements came in a summons letter, praising your family-made glasswork and wishing for you to join to work at the castle. More praises and more money, enough for your cousins in the countryside to buy themselves five acres of productive land.

To respond to your words; yes, he's familiar. He's familiar with the recognition and the gratitude—although you lack the title of a knight and apparently the skills of swordfighting along with many other ability signatures that of a royal-born. Unlike him in so many ways, yet similar in fewer.

“I do.”

You're odd. You're hardworking. You're both blunt and not. You craft beauty—wordplay and glasswork. You find a lovely company with him while he's in his forge, and he in yours.

“So,” you smile, which he happens to find very endearing. “How does it feel to be the son of Lord Walon Vau, the head of perhaps a third of our entire elite knights, instead of deployed out there as often as your eldest brother on direct assignment by the Crown, dedicating yourself for the Crown in another way?”

It's not a difficult question to answer.

“You must be the most unique among your famous brothers. Knights of the Delta Squad,” you continue, “If not the oddest.”

Fixer’s brows twitch. “You surely ask a lot of questions.”

“It's called building a rapport,” you grin, “I'm sure you know how it is.”

“It's like you're trying to get into my head.”

“Oh so now I'm a wizard?”

“It’s because you—”

He blinks. His words fail him all of a sudden, as if his throat is closing up. What's next is a silent inhale through the teeth, his eyes like mapping a star chart across your face. He can see the signs of the endeavor of the day, too. You're always busy, your forge always running from first light to before sundown.

“You… Work wonders.”

Only then he realizes the weight of his admiration. He glances away before your eyes, widened by surprise, can catch him. You're surprised. And you're used to praise that it causes him to wonder what's different this time.

“Glasswork is hard to maintain,” Fixer says to you, his voice low. “Cups get broken. Windows, shattered. Vases thrown by angry wives to cheating husbands. All that's left is countless hazardous pieces that could cut through skin. Almond sandy in texture, yet sharp. From sand, to sand.” His fingertip traces the significantly deeper wood grain along the worktable you're sitting on. “More work than being a blacksmith tending to steel that lasts much longer.”

You smile a little. “If it's a good steel.”

Fixer fetches a piece of untampered steel from the table that catches his eyes and wordlessly hands it to you. Your knowledge of steel isn't as good as your father's yet, but you know a good one when you see one. In your hands, it is. You examine it closely.

“Both of our materials could harm someone and kill someone if the wielder wishes to. We forge how dangerous we want it to be,” you murmur, holding the steel at eye level. “Do you think somehow we could be responsible for someone's death and be hanged for it?”

“If a sword's blade is bent, I'd have a ghost of a dead soldier killed in battle cursing and haunting me for eternity,” Fixer scoffs. “You won't have anyone's ghost haunting you for broken glass.”

You huff. “One could blame me for ergonomic issues.”

“Which you could avoid. They can avoid anything that would harm them if they're aware and not clumsy. Glasses break because they're very fragile, yes—but the wielder, the handler…” Before he can think about it, he lays his hand on top of yours. “Must be delicate with it.”

Your parting lips are the last thing he sees before he realizes you're leaning towards each other, and your lips crashing against his. In passion.

And swear to gods, he's tried to go slow. He wants to enjoy this, but it seems that the passion has won you over. Your hand grips his jaw to pull him down further into you, and his hands upon reflex find your waist while propping himself up on the table with the other. And just like that he's helpless, and lost. Lost in the warmth of your breath and your chapped lips and the faintest taste of cheap bitter wine on your tongue.

His fingers then curl under your thighs and tug you sharply toward him, his intentions igniting to take control of you. You let out a yelp, and Fixer slots himself between your legs, his strong arms—a result of switching between taking to smithing and playing noble elite knight—splaying around your back as he kisses you. It's messy—your teeth clack against his and you're panting for breath.

His entire torso is pressed against your front, it's as if he's absorbed all the heat from the forge fire. Your fingers carding through his curls that you can feel his sweat and even smell it. It's merely a small jump to get lost in each other's lust—the idea of doing it inside his forge where anyone could've walked in excites you—but the fire between you dwindles upon your will. His heart is still beating fast under your hand when you both pull away.

Fixer is breathless and you're the one making him like so. You feel proud. And all he wants is to wipe that smug smile off your face with another breathtaking kiss because you're just so tempting and teasing all the time.

He licks his lips, the bitterness already seeping into his own tongue. “That's not a good wine.”

“Told you it's cheap,” you let out a laugh, “Not enough alcohol to make me slur on my words.”

He's thinking some of those wines he likes that he could perhaps snatch from the pantry.

“So have you and have you not stolen from a dragon's hoard?”

Your question catches him off guard. His chest warms to your unrelenting curiosity—every moment with you shall be amusing. A series of chuckles escapes him, and when the charming sound fades it leaves you with an equally charming smile—a dimpled smile.

“What do you know about dragon's hoards?” Fixer asks back, remaining there with his hands firm on your waist. “My turn. Taking a look inside your mind.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what do I get I'm right?”

His finger curls under your chin and tilts it upward so you look into his eyes. “You get another kiss that might lead to something more.” His voice deep, and his invitation slithering its way into your desires. Then the gleam in his eyes turns mischievous. “Or a small unlawful supper in the castle's pantry eating all the noble's leftovers.”

“Sounds fun,” you remark with an unbridled smile.

“Oh I'm just aiming for the Alderaanian wine. You can have the exquisite salted pork they import fortnightly from Gamorr.”

“Or both.” You lean to kiss him again, yet before he closes the distance, you pull back just in time and let the tip of your tongue teasingly swipe across his bottom lip. He glares at you. “I'd like to win. This little game is very desirable.”

Fixer lets out a hum to acknowledge you, his expression turns serious with a look of challenge. “So.” His grip on your waist tightens, just as his lips dangerously nearing yours again to keep to his promised prize. “Answer the question, my little glassblower.”

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You’ve never been in love before.

At least, if you have, it’s never felt like this before.

It’s never felt so real.

You rest your chin on your folded arms as you watch the men from Delta walk around the ship, preparing for the upcoming mission. Your gaze jumps from Scorch, who’s checking his weapons, and then over to Sev, who’s polishing his armor, and then finally your gaze lands on Fixer, who is reading over the mission brief again.

You love Fixer.

You do.

He’s so serious and stern and no-nonsense. And he follows all of the rules to the letter.

And you love him anyway.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s pathetic.

Even if Fixer didn’t follow all of the rules all of the time, he still wouldn’t be interested in you. You know this. You’re too jedi. Too naive. Too self-conscious.

A hand lands between your shoulder blades, and Boss leans over you, “You’re staring.”

“I’m thinking.” You reply.

“Hm, about Fixer?” Boss asks as he slides into the seat next to you.

You scowl at him, “Just in general,” You finally say as you turn to look at him, “We’ll be landing soon, I’m guessing.”

“Soonish.” He gazes at you thoughtfully, “You know we’re all on your side, right?”

“I’m sorry?”

“We,” He motions to himself, Scorch, and Sev, “Think that you’d be good for Fixer. So we’re rooting for you.”

You blink at him, twice, and then turn to bury your face in your arms, “Is it that obvious?”

“Yeah, just a bit.”

“Ugh…how humiliating.”

“It’s cute.”

“Please stop talking.” You say quietly, and then you lift your head when the ship makes a noise, announcing your arrival on the planet, “Ah. Time for work.”

“So it would seem.”

You get to your feet and walk over to the side door, pressing the button to slide the door open. And then you crouch near the exit, “That’s a lot of droids,”

“There’s no way we can land here.” Fixer says, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, to offer you support.

“Yeah, but this is the only way in,” Scorch points out, “It’s not like there’s a back entrance.”

“We can make one.” Sev says, “Enough explosives-”

“Bad idea,” Boss interrupts, he turns his gaze towards you, “Suggestions.”

“Land the ship further back, you’ll just have to walk a little more.” You finally say as you stand and pull your saber into your hands.

“What about you?” Scorch asks with a small frown.

“I’m going out there.” You reply as you toss your outer robe over a chair, “I’ll clear some space for you all.”

“It’s too dangerous.” Fixer counters.

“More dangerous than leaving our vulnerable drop ship open to enemy fire?” You ask with a pointed look at Fixer, “I realize that you think I’m incompetent,” And wow, it hurts to finally say that outloud, “But I was assigned as your Jedi for a reason.”

Fixer blinks, “Wha-? I don’t think you’re incompetent-”

“Now is not the time,” Boss barks, “General, go. Be careful. We’ll catch up when we can.”

You nod at him, and flash a small smile, “Happy hunting, boys.” And then you jump out of the ship. You use the force so slow your descent and you light your sabers before you hit the ground.

You hear the ship fly off, and you settle yourself in the force.

It’s just you now. You and the force, and what seems like half a million droids.

Pity.

If they wanted to win they would have sent more droids.

Fixer grips his blaster tightly, anxiety and worry making him more tense than usual.

He can’t get her words out of his mind. “I realize you think I’m incompetent.” She said before jumping out of the ship to fight an army on her own.

She can’t possibly think that he thinks that, right?

And if she does, what does that say about how he’s been treating her?

He’s been nothing but respectful towards her. And he does respect her. He respects the hell out of her. And more.

Fixer isn’t the type of man to lie to himself, and he’s not going to start now. 

He knows that his eyes drift to her during downtime. How he watches her hair sway when she walks. How he stands closer to her just so that he might be able to catch a hint of the citrusy scented shampoo she uses. How he sometimes hates Scorch for being able to make her laugh.

He’s enamored. He knows it. And he knows that his brothers know it.

And he also knows that she’s so far outside his reach that, even standing next to him, she might as well be in another system.

But she’s not standing next to him.

She’s kilometers away. Fighting a battle all on her own. With no support but what she can give herself with her blades.

And he hates it.

“You need to relax, vod.” Boss says as he leads his brothers through the undergrowth, “She’s going to be fine. She wouldn’t have offered if she wasn’t able to hold her own.”

Fixer bristles, “I don’t think she’s not able to hold her own.” He snaps, “I think she shouldn’t have to.”

“Oh my god,” Scorch finally blurts, “Vod. Fixer. The General-” He swears as Sev smacks him hard, “What the kriff!”

“That’s not for you to tell.” Sev says severely.

“Someone needs to say something!” Scorch hisses.

“Yeah. But not you.” Sev counters.

“Quiet.” Boss’ order cuts through the bickering like a knife, “Gunfire.”

The men lift their blasters and slowly continue forward, being careful to be as quiet as they can. They push through the brush, and into a clearing, where they see their General darting this way and that, her crystal blue lightsabers a blur with how quickly she’s moving.

The men of Delta immediately enter the fray, falling into the familiar strategy of using their General as bait to draw out the droids.

And as the last droid falls to a combination of Sev’s sniper and the General’s blade, she straightens and deactivates her blades. She turns to greet them with a small smile, there’s oil on her robes and several burns on her face, “Nice of you to join me.”

“What happened?” Fixer asks as he steps closer and fishes some bacta out of one of his pouches.

“Some of these droids are rigged to explode if someone uses a lightsaber against them,” She winces as he applies bacta to one of the burns, “They look the same as the other droids though.”

“So we should stick to using blasters for now,” Boss says thoughtfully, “Do you need a break?”

“I’m good to continue.”

“Good enough for me. What did you see?”

“It looks like there are two facilities.” The General replies with a frown, “Which is one more facility than we were expecting. One seems to be producing droids, while the other looks to be an information hub. We should hit both of them.”

“Agreed.” Boss says with a single nod. He falls silent for a moment, “Fixer, you and the General will hit up the information hub. We will deal with the droids.”

“You sure?” The General asks.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Boss replies dryly, “Sev, Scorch. We’re heading in.”

And then Fixer is alone with the General.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks.

“Just some burns,” She holds up a hand to show off the blisters, “But it’s fine.”

Fixer sighs and tugs his helmet off, “We have time to treat those, General.” He says as he takes her hand and carefully applies bacta to the burns.

“...sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m happy to help.” Fixer kind of hates that he’s wearing his gloves now, though, because he wants nothing more than to touch her. He’s quiet for a moment, “You know, I don’t think you’re incompetent, General.”

“You don’t?”

“No. I respect you and everything you do for us…and I just…” He trails off, “I wish you would be more careful.”

“If I have to get a scar to keep you and your brothers from getting hurt-”

“No.” Fixer interrupts, “I don’t want you getting hurt at all. I hate seeing you get hurt.”

“Oh.”

“I just…I…” He trails off, “Why did you have to be a jedi? All of the things I want to say to you aren’t allowed-”

She blinks at him, and Fixer averts his gaze as he grabs his helmet, “Fixer,” She stops him from putting his helmet on, “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m in love with you, but you’re a Jedi and aren’t allowed to be in relationships.” Fixer says, “So…so all I can do is admire you and love you from afar.”

She’s quiet for a moment, “I think there’s been something of a cultural misunderstanding.” She finally says, “I’m not forbidden from loving or having relationships. Attachments are forbidden, but attachments aren’t love, Fixer.”

“...can you be more specific?”

“Yes, but not now.” She stands on her toes and kisses his cheek, and Fixer feels his heart doing backflips in his chest, “For now, just know that I love you too. And that I would like to see where this takes us.”

“Oh.” He sighs.

“And now we have a job to do.”