#rep comm

Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.

One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.

You didn’t get many clones here.

Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.

Except one.

Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.

You didn’t know his name.

So you called him Greenie in your head.

And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.

Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.

He told himself it was logistical.

The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.

It made tactical sense.

But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.

Observing.

You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.

And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”

He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.

The next day, he came back.

And the next.

And today, too.

You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.

“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”

He paused.

“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.

You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”

He almost smiled.

Almost.

It became routine.

You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.

Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.

Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”

He tilted his head. “No.”

You laughed. “Figures.”

Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.

That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.

He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.

He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.

He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.

So he stayed quiet.

He came back.

Again.

And again.

And again.

It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.

“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”

He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”

“You’re not on a mission right now.”

“I’m always on a mission.”

You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”

He hesitated.

“…Fixer.”

You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”

“…Yes.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”

He nodded.

He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.

He knew too much. But not enough.

⸻

A few days later, the war came closer.

There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.

And he was there—immediately.

Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.

You looked up.

“…Fixer?”

He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.

“Status?”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.

You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”

There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.

“I’m glad.”

You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”

“I know.”

“You’re doing it anyway.”

“I know that, too.”

And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.

“Good,” you said softly.

He didn’t respond. Not verbally.

But he didn’t let go.

The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.

Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.

But then—

“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”

Boss.

Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.

He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.

You blinked. “Fixer—?”

But he was already backing away, rifle primed.

“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”

He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.

“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”

Fixer was gone.

⸻

Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.

A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.

Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.

“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”

“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”

Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”

Fixer nodded. “On it.”

“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”

Fixer didn’t respond.

Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”

Boss sighed. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”

“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.

“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”

There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.

Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.

“Contact,” he said coolly.

The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.

Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.

“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”

“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”

Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”

“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”

“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.

Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.

But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.

It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.

Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.

The blaster charge lit up red.

Fixer ducked—too slow.

The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.

“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.

“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”

“You good?” Scorch piped up.

“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.

But he wasn’t angry.

Not really.

He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.

You.

⸻

Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.

You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.

And worrying.

He had said he was always on a mission.

But now, you were his distraction.

And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.

Not yet.

But you planned to find out.

The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.

Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.

“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”

“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”

You frowned. “Then why is it black?”

“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”

He hesitated.

The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.

“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.

You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded once.

Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”

“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”

You looked up. “By what?”

He paused.

“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.

The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.

Ding!

“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.

Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”

You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.

“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.

“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”

“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”

Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”

“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”

“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.

You tried very, very hard not to laugh.

Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”

“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”

“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”

“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.

Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.

“Sorry about them,” he said simply.

“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”

“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.

Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”

Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”

Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”

Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.

“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”

“Looking forward to it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.

“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”

Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.

The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.

You wrap your arms around Sev’s waist and it feels even better than he expected. His muscles loosen up with just that touch. He wants to reciprocate but isn’t quite sure how - where’s the line? Will you realize he’s starting to have feelings he knows he probably shouldn’t have if he holds you too closely or too long?

He tentatively drapes one arm over your shoulders. He has to focus on his breath and not being too obvious while fighting the urge to pull you in tighter and smell your hair.

“Not so bad now, was it?” you tease as you pull away.

He catches himself hesitating before letting his arm fall. He hides the surge of disappointment in the brevity of the embrace with a grunt as he turns away to avoid looking at you as he stifles the emotion and shoves it down to where all his other demons and suppressed feelings dwell.

“Goodnight, princess,” you call as you pull your improvised bedroll out.

The playful taunt replaces some of the disappointment with hope - which is almost worse, but he can’t help but indulge it.

“Night,” he grumbles as he leaves you to your rest and returns to the crew bunks, grateful that Scorch is in the cockpit and can’t torment him about you.

Or the fact that he’s definitely blushing.

What’s he supposed to do? You’re beautiful, quick-witted and funny, competent (for a civilian), and level-headed while under pressure. Your deviousness and criminal history - more reason he shouldn’t have these feelings - only make you more attractive.

Boss and Fixer are already asleep in their own bunks, Boss snoring lightly, leaving him to himself and his imagination. He sits down on the edge of his bunk and stares at his calloused hands. How would it feel to run his hands through your hair? Or have your fingers in his hair?

Or just to have your hand in his…

He hadn’t sat so close to you intentionally but he doesn’t regret it, not one bit. He can still feel the press of your plump thigh and the heat of your body and, even though you’ve been cooped up in the ship with them for almost two standard weeks, you still manage to smell like flowers and honey. Whenever you use the ‘fresher, it still smells like the soap and shampoo you brought with you when you fled your home for hours afterward. He has lingered in the cramped space more than once just to enjoy the smell.

His mind wanders to places it shouldn’t but he chooses to indulge it, kicking off his boots and lying back in the narrow bunk. He closes his eyes and lets the smile you’d put on his face creep back.

It would have been so easy to put his arm around your shoulders and inhale your smell when he had sat next to you. It had been a stupid bet and he hadn’t been nearly as confident in the comparison between his blaster and your scar as he had let on. It was worth it, though.

You would be with them for at least another standard week, likely twice that, before reaching Coruscant, where you would try to resettle. He would have to find ways to get closer to you again before then - physically, sure, but as… friends so you would want to keep in touch after that.

Just friends, right? He knows it’s pointless to want more. There’s no way you would be interested in anything more than that, not with a man like him. He’s too kriffed up for someone like you. And Vau would never approve.

You did seem to be having fun with his brothers and him, even if Boss made you stay on the ship when they RV’d with Jedi General Jusik and when they had to make a quick detour for a little asset denial today. Your smile when they got back had made his guts feel like they were twisting in knots. He had stared at you, mouth hanging open silently, then promptly forgot the attempt at a warm greeting he had agonized over on the trek back to the ship. He fled to the ‘fresher as quickly as he could, grateful that his bucket hid his face.

It would be fun to stop somewhere with you to give you a little time off the ship. He wonders if you’ve ever been to Dorumaa or anywhere like it. He can see you in one of those little Twilek bathing suits, which would look so good on your plush curves.

Fierfek, your body did things to him. So different from his: soft, curvy - womanly. Your lips are so tempting and probably taste like berries.

What kind of sounds would you make if he kissed you, touched your velvety skin, squeezed the tender flesh of your shebs?

He can see you lounging on a beautiful beach, your body fully on display - but he’s the only person there to see. You only let him see that much of your body, let alone touch you. You look at him with those pretty eyes and reach for him…

You let him kiss you until your lips are sore and you make soft little whimpering sounds, whispering his name and begging for more…

“Hey Sev, your turn at the helm.”

He startles at Scorch’s voice.

“Wakey wakey, vod. I need some sleep.”

“All that pestering y/n wear you out? I’m surprised you aren’t begging for her attention now.”

“She’s asleep. I checked. And I’ll have you know, vod, she finds me charming and funny. Maybe you should try being nice. She’s great.”

“Sure, Scorch.” Sev sighed and pulled his boots back on. He had managed to get absolutely no sleep and now he had to stare at the hypnotic lights of hyperspace for hours.

Plenty of time to think about you, at least.

He trudges out into the living space of the ship, where you’ve been sleeping on the padded bench. It can’t be comfortable, he thinks, trying not to look at you as he passes by.

“Back for another hug?” Your voice is warm and sounds like a smile.

It still makes him jump. Hadn’t Scorch said you were sleeping when he walked through?

“Bit on edge?” You switch on a dim light, just enough illumination that he can see the sparkle in your eyes. “Maybe you do need another hug… or seven.”

He grunts, unsure what to say but he suspects that nonverbal communication won’t get him into any trouble.

… But it also won’t help him get any closer to you…

“My turn babysitting the autopilot.”

You smile and the way it reaches your eyes is incredibly cute. It makes him feel funny.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, troublemaker?”

You feign a gasp of offense. “Troublemaker? Me? You’re one to talk!”

“I’m a commando. You’re a criminal.” It sounds a bit too harsh in his voice but you scoff playfully.

“And you enlisted my help, which I think probably makes you a criminal too.”

“Nah. All part of the commando job description. It’s not crime if you’re wearing GAR armor.”

You chuckle. “That armor makes you look terrifying. You just scare your way out of charges?”

He shrugs. “Only get charged if you get caught.”

“I’ve never been caught,” you tease. “And I don’t have scary armor.”

“I don’t think A’den would have recommended you if you weren’t good enough to not get caught.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You saying you think I’m good, Sev?”

“You are objectively good at being a deviant little criminal, yes.” His usual dry humor is giving way to something more playful and unguarded. “It’s why I like you.”

“Here I thought it was my dazzling wit.”

“Doesn’t hurt. You’re really pretty too.”

He didn’t realize just how unguarded…

You blush - fierfek, you blushed at the compliment that slipped out before he could stop it.

“Aw, Sev. I like you too. You’re scary as hell, and you make me laugh. And you’re pretty damn easy on the eyes.” You wink and he feels something shake loose inside his chest.

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away with a slight smile pulling up one side of his mouth. “I should, um, get up to the, um, the cockpit.”

He turns before you can see the color rising in his cheeks.

He doesn’t make it far before you ask, “Mind if I join? Can’t sleep.”

He stops. You want to spend time with him? One on one?

“Should be boring enough that it will put you to sleep. I would have to carry you back to your bed.”

“Promise to tuck me in and tell me a bedtime story?”

He gives you a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “If that’s what it takes for my favorite little criminal to get some decent sleep.”

He’s getting good at this flirting thing…

“That’s really sweet of you to say, Sev,” you respond as you slip your feet into your boots. “I should get you alone more often. Telling me you like me and think I’m pretty. Offering to help me sleep..”

“You’re an attractive woman, y/n. I’m just stating facts.” As he says it, he takes in the image of you in front of him: hair in a loose braid, tank top that emphasizes your curves, baggy pants that look almost as soft as your skin does. You might be the prettiest little thing he’s ever seen.

You catch him staring at you and smile. “Good to know, good-lookin’.”

He’s frozen in place for a moment, unsure how to respond to your offhand compliment, before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna… go to the cockpit.”

“Right behind ya, Sevvy.”

You’re going to make him blush if you keep this up.

“You know, I haven’t been up here since that first jump. Started wondering if you boys chose this ship for some ultra top secret reasons you can’t tell me.”

He snorts. “Can you shoot and fly at the same time?”

“Only one way to find out,” you laugh.

He gives you a sharp look. “You’re not us. Your part of the job is done.”

You shrink back with an expression he hasn’t seen on your face before. “Message received. You know, you don’t have to take me all the way to Coruscant. You can just drop me at the closest intergalactic station and I can find my own way. Been doing it my whole life.”

Shab. Of course he’s karked it up.

“I didn’t… mean it like that,” he attempts. Apologies aren’t really his forte. “We’re not safe - you’re not safe - until we get to Coruscant. We can’t take chances with a wildcard at the helm.”

“No, I get it. I’m essentially a liability for you guys.” You stay standing as he takes the pilot’s seat with a heavy sigh.

“You’re not a liability, y/n. We’re a highly trained elite military unit. You’re a civilian who helped us out. Some guys just dump an asset as soon as their usefulness is up, or even -”

“That your usual M.O.?” you interrupt.

He sighs again. If he hadn’t alienated her before he was about to do so now. “We have done it, yes.”

“No living witnesses?”

“That’s the protocol. But not with you,” he adds before you can say anything.

“Yeah? What makes me so special?” You settle into the copilot’s seat and train your gaze on him. “Need me to lift another ship for ya? You seem more than capable in any other circumstance.”

He snorts. “We are. But… ughhhhh. We like you? We would be… sad if something happened to you. I would be sad.” The words feel strange in his mouth.

“Oh yeah?” you say, voice softer.

This damn woman has forced him to be more vulnerable than he’s ever let himself be. You’re dismantling his defenses like a vulture droid.

He shrugs. “You’re funny.”

“And pretty?”

He looks down at his hands - the hands he’d pictured running through your hair - to hide the heat rising in your face. “Pretty. Competent.”

You aren’t responding and it worries him. He’s cold as ice on the battlefield but he’s afraid of you, whose most aggressive act has been calling him “petunia”?

He finally looks up and you’re looking at him with that pretty smile of yours and his guts do that twisty thing again.

“Well, you know you’re competent - and scary. And you make me laugh. You and Scorch could do a holonet show. And I’ve told you you’re good looking. And that I like you…”

Are you saying what he thinks you’re saying?

You pull your lips into your mouth and look to the side in an anxious expression.

“What are you saying?” he ventures, trying to keep his voice level.

“I’m saying,” you begin as you extend a foot to nudge his leg, “that I would like to get to know you better…”

“You mean like…” he trails off, unsure of what to say and nervous that’ll he might be reading too much into your words.

“I mean I want to talk to you about things other than me being good at crime. Maybe even give you more hugs.”

He looks down, not fighting his grin as hard now, though his guts were even more twisty. “I would like that…”

When he looks back up, you’re grinning and biting your lower lip. Fierfek, you’re cute.

“So… erm…” He clears his throat. “I don’t know how to… how this works…”

You giggle and reach for his hand - it feels even better than he’d thought. “Don’t worry. It’s not like… training drills with step by step instructions. More like one of your commando operations: a lot of improvising and instinct.”

“Okay, so… do I just ask you questions?” He feels so shabla stupid.

“You can. Or we can just chat.”

“Copy… um…”

You giggle again and squeeze his hand. “I’ll go first. Tell me about this scar you have that the boys teased you about…”

Haar’chak.

This is not what I think baby wookies actually look like, but what I think Scorch, who has probably never seen a real-life civilian baby, might imagine them like. Hence, the bow, the pacifier, and the exaggerated, super-large eyes.

Done in Krita. I don't have a tablet, only a mouse, so please excuse that some lines are not as clean as they could be.