#rebels rex

The battlefield had quieted, but your leg was on fire. You didn’t realize you’d caught shrapnel until you stumbled behind cover, hand flying instinctively to the warm slickness running down your thigh.

“Osik—” you hissed, trying to keep your weight steady.

You were supposed to be patching them up, not the other way around. Medic, not patient. But luck never favored the careful.

A shadow fell over you, and you looked up into the hard lines of Captain Rex’s helmet. His blaster was still hot in his hand, smoke curling from the barrel.

“Medic—” his voice cut off as he saw you trying to put pressure on your leg. Immediately, the soldier dropped to his knees beside you, stripping his helmet off in one swift motion.

“Kriff, you’re hit.”

“Just a scratch,” you lied, forcing a shaky smile. “Save the dramatics for someone else.”

Rex’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t buying it. He never did.

“You’re bleeding,” he said flatly, already unclipping the small field kit from his belt.

You tried to wave him off, stubborn. “Rex, I can patch myself—”

His gloved hand caught your wrist gently but firmly, stopping you. His eyes, usually so steady and composed, burned with something that made your chest ache.

“Let me,” he said softly.

You nodded, swallowing back the protest.

⸻

He worked fast but careful, slicing open the fabric around your thigh to reveal the gash. Shrapnel had torn deep, blood spilling freely. He swore under his breath.

“This is going to need stitches,” he muttered, pulling out the suture kit.

Your throat went dry. Normally you’d be the one holding the needle, not the one staring at it. “Oh, stars…”

Rex’s gaze flicked up to yours, and for a moment the war wasn’t there—just the two of you, crouched in the dirt. He hesitated, the needle poised in his steady hand.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted quietly.

You blinked at him. The words carried more weight than they should have. It wasn’t just about the stitches—he meant all of it. Every bruise, every close call, every time he watched you run headfirst into blaster fire for the sake of his brothers.

“You won’t,” you said, softer than you intended.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening just a fraction, and gave you the tiniest nod. Then he started.

⸻

The needle bit, sharp and clean. You sucked in a hiss of air, your hand instinctively shooting out. Rex caught it before you could pull away, his fingers wrapping around yours, grounding you.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his thumb brushing across your knuckles almost unconsciously. “I’ll be quick.”

You squeezed his hand back, biting down hard on your lip as he worked. His movements were precise, methodical, but every so often you caught the way his brow furrowed, his mouth pressing into a thin line. He was more tense than you were.

“Rex…” you whispered, trying to distract yourself from the sting.

“Mm?”

“You’re doing fine. Better than some medics I know.” You smiled weakly.

His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile he could manage in the moment. “Don’t make me laugh while I’m holding a needle.”

You chuckled anyway, despite the pain. The sound made his chest ache in a way blaster fire never could.

⸻

A few stitches later, it was done. He tied off the last thread, bandaging your leg with practiced efficiency. When he finally leaned back, his shoulders sagged in relief.

“There,” he said. “Good as new.”

You glanced down at his work, then back at him. His hand was still around yours, warm and steady, like he’d forgotten to let go.

“Not bad, Captain.” You gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Maybe I should let you handle all the medical work from now on.”

“Not a chance,” he said, voice rough but fond. “I’d rather not see you hurt again.”

Something unspoken hung heavy between you. You held his gaze, the weight of everything you’d both left unsaid pressing in on your chest.

Finally, you smiled softly. “Guess I’ll have to let you look out for me then.”

His lips parted like he wanted to answer, but instead he just gave your hand one last squeeze before reluctantly letting go.

“Always,” he said simply.