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super-ion · 5 months ago

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The Engineer

Part 6

(part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5)

I catch a glimpse of the Pilot as she is wheeled towards the med bay. Her eyes are wild, panicked, with the glaze of just having been torn out of herself.

For a moment, as the gurney slides by, those eyes briefly clear, ice blue pinning me to the spot. She reaches out with an emaciated arm, fast as lightning, and takes hold of my wrist in an iron grip.

She moves her lips, at first unable to form words, unable to remember how to use human speech organs.

"Do your job," she says, slowly, deliberately, as if that singular command is the only thing in the universe that matters.

Something in the gurney clicks and whirs and she slips into catatonia. Her grip loosens and her fingers trail away.

Something has gone terribly wrong in this last engagement.

Alarms blare and booted feet thunder past me.

My own feet join the cacophony.

I have a job to do.

The Pilot is alive and she is now the responsibility of the med team.

My responsibility is the Machine.

Do your job.

The words echo in my head as I sprint the remaining distance to the vestibule.

A tech tries to stop me, he says something I don't quite process. I shove past him and am greeted by a scene out of a nightmare.

Morrigan's hatch has been severed, the emergency release pyros having been triggered. The parts of her hull visible to the vestibule are pitted and blackened. I can't even find the stencilled lettering of her factory designated identifier, just an ugly hole torn open by an incendiary.

Inside, the cockpit is a mess of fire suppressant and crash gel. Indicator lights form a constellation of blinking red and half of the display panels, the half that still work, flash an endless stream of error messages.

Everything reeks of ammonia and ozone and scorched metal.

"Me or Morrigan could get dead in the next engagement."

The nonchalance with which those words had been delivered caught me off guard when they were spoken. Morrigan and Her Pilot are untouchable. They were supposed to be untouchable.

Do your job.

I begin to strip as fast as humanly possible. I need to get in there. I need to know that she is alive.

The tech that tried to stop me grabs my arm. You can't go in there, the reactor has not been stabilized.

I tear myself from his grip.

I have a job to do, I say with a snarl.

Something in my expression, my bared teeth, my feral eyes, convinces him to leave me be. He stands down, hands raised in surrender. He could call security, but by the time they get here, I'll already be jacked in, and it will be too late for them to do anything.

Do your job. Do your job. Do your job.

My job is information recovery and analysis.

My job is to save as much as I can.

I need to save Her.

One of the cameras spots me and the others focus on me in panicked motion. The one nearest to me has a cracked lens and the iris flutters open and closed, unable to focus.

The cradle has been mangled nearly beyond recognition. They had to physically cut the Pilot out of Her, neither of them willing to let go of the other. The still operable mechanisms of it jerk erratically, trying vainly to reconfigure for me. Her neural interface port reaches towards me desperately.

I scrabble to Her, pressing myself into the cradle. The shorn, inoperable pieces dig painfully into my flesh. The neural insertion is not gentle, the plug scrapes painfully against my skin before it finds the jack and shoves roughly into me.

"I'm here," I tell Her as the link is established.

It's bad.

It's worse than I feared.

Reactor housing is damaged. System failsafes are vainly attempting to stabilize it while ground crews work as fast at they can towards a purge of the system.

Her processor core… fuck. My mind struggles to make sense of the telemetry stream. Multiple processor modules fractured. Unstable resonance modes. Positron avalanche. System collapse imminent.

My breath catches and my heart pounds in my chest.

She is dying.

Do your job.

The umbilical data lines aren't receiving, rogue processes are preventing access to primary communication channels. I work furiously to establish auxiliary paths for the data transfer. In fits and starts, the data recorder begins streaming into the facility mainframe.

There is a problem.

The data repository is meant for telemetry and battle space recordings. If I attempted to back up her core personality engrams, everything that makes her who she is, the data would get scrubbed and purged faster than I could back them up elsewhere.

There isn't time to set up an alternate backup repository.

- PILOT STATUS?

"She's safe," I tell Her. “You completed your mission. Your Pilot… Our Pilot is safe.”

- ENGINEER STATUS?

"Status is… not good…"

- PLEASE DO NOT CRY.

Fuck.

I drag my hand over my face, smearing the tears gathering in my eyes.

Now that the data is streaming there is nothing I can do but feel her die as I lie in her embrace.

I can not conceive a reality in which I exist without her.

And the Pilot. The Pilot will not survive, not with half of who she is destroyed.

"The three of us, we're just this fucking tangle, aren't we?"

Do your job.

Save Her.

Save. Her.

I know this system. I know it more intimately than anyone alive.

There *is* one data connection I haven't considered. There *is* one piece of external storage currently connected.

Shit.

I act.

I open up a new interface in my hud. Morrigan's attention fixes on me, on the calculations I'm running through my head and I can feel Her dawning horror over the link.

Neural bleed. It works both ways.

All neural rigs are designed to facilitate data transfer between an organic brain and a mechanical one. Mine is no exception. Mine hasn't undergone all the upgrades needed for a pilot's full sensorium, but the core neural interface is the same.

If I disable safety overrides, if I bypass the data buffers, I can download her personality engrams directly into my prefrontal cortex.

I have no idea what that will do to me.

Exceptional synchrony and neuro-elasticity. That's what my intake assessments had said all those years ago. I was in the upper quintile among all pilot candidates. Maybe that was my downfall. Maybe that's why I washed out.

Maybe that's why I'm here now, contemplating this singularly desperate act.

Maybe that's why my neural bleed with Her has been so deep. Maybe there is something in me that is in tune with Them.

But as far as I know, no one has ever attempted anything like this. It could very well kill me.

But the thought of living without Her is more terrifying than the prospect of dying. It's more terrifying than what might happen to me if this works.

Morrigan pleads with me.

- STOP.

"No. I can't stop," I reply. "I need you."

- NO.

"Yes, I do," I tell her. "Your Pilot needs you."

I can feel Her emotional flinch over the link. I have the one piece of leverage I need, and She knows it.

"Wouldn't you give anything, sacrifice anything to see her again?"

It's a dirty trick, I know it is, playing off that one connection, her deepest, most intimate connection. Maybe I mean something to Her, but She and the Pilot were made for each other in the most literal sense.

And I suddenly realize that I am doing this as much for the Pilot as any of us. That surprises me. As much as I have tried to distance myself from other human beings, I became entangled with her the moment I opened myself up to Morrigan.

I would never be able to face her if I didn't do everything in my power to save the Machine.

A processor module fails outright. The system struggles to reallocate resources, but submodules throughout the entire system are strained to their limit.

There isn't any time left and She knows it.

She sullenly acedes.

We begin working in concert, me working to disable safety protocols in my rig, Her working to isolate and distill Her core personality patterns into something that can be handled by the bandwidth of the interface.

An alarm pings over the link. Reactor purge in progress. Power fluctuations spike all over her systems. Her processor power distribution subsystem is completely fucked. It won't be able to keep up with current activity levels as the whole system switches over to umbilical power.

Out of time.

I engage the final override, by mind suddenly open to hers, the neural link unbuffered, unfiltered.

Her mind presses in on me and I glimpse the full sensorium. I feel all of her pain and fear and anguish at what she is about to do to me.

My fingers tingle before they go numb.

"Do it," I command her.

- I LOVE YOU.

Data transfer initiates.

This isn't neural bleed.

This is a flood.

My body convulses.

I taste something coppery in my mouth.

Someone somewhere screams.

The scream is mine.

My rig isn't built for this. My body isn't conditioned for this.

Every nerve in me blazes white hot.

My vision tunnels as auras bloom like bruises on the skin of reality.

Shouts of alarm call from outside the cockpit.

A face resolves itself, and for a moment I think it's Her.

The Pilot.

A Priestess.

An Angel.

No.

It.

It is one of the techs.

Then a medic.

More shouting.

Get her out of there!

Every muscle in my body clenches painfully.

I can barely breathe.

Cut her loose!

No.

It's not done yet. It's not enough.

It's too much.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

I can't.

I can't stop. Not yet.

Do your job.

Save Her.

My body convulses once again, and I pass into oblivion.

(next)

~~~

@digitalsymbiote @g1ngan1nja @thriron @ephemeral-arcanist @mias-domain @justasleepykitten @powder-of-infinity @valkayrieactual @chaosmagetwin @assigned-stupid-at-birth @avalanchenouveau @rtfmx9 @femgineerasolution @ibleedelectric @gd-s451 @brieflybitten

#mech posting #human x machine #robot x human #mech pilot x mechanic #mechposting #my writing #writers on tumblr #lesbian #scifi #science fiction

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cod-imagines · 17 days ago

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imagine #2

character: Phillip Graves words: 6723 cw: 18+, depictions of violence, blood description: in which you’re a bratty CIA agent and Phillip Graves is tasked with ensuring your safety on your next op. (part 2) a/n: can you guys tell Phillip Graves is my favourite character in the entire game series lol

Langley’s operations wing always smelled like something vaguely scorched — ozone, cheap toner, the acidic bite of overworked electronics — layered with the bitter ghost of day-old coffee left to stew in a burner-stained pot. The kind of place that hummed with fluorescent fatigue, every corner buzzing with the relentless rhythm of classified churn. Ceiling lights flickered like they were seconds from giving out. Shadows moved along the walls like they were trying to crawl free.

Your heels clicked down the corridor with too much self-assurance for someone still wet behind the ears. You knew it. You could feel it in the way analysts glanced up from their screens as you passed — a mix of amusement and unease, like they couldn’t decide whether to roll their eyes or salute. And maybe you hadn’t earned that kind of strut yet. Not officially. But swagger came easier than humility, and confidence — real or faked — was half the job.

Your badge bounced against your left breast, the hard plastic flash of it catching the overhead light like a flare. Your name glared back in all caps, black ink on laminate, printed above the seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. A symbol meant to invoke order, control, gravity. But it didn’t feel like any of those things on your skin.

Three months since you’d been field-cleared. Sixty-something days since you’d swapped paperwork and internal memos for burnt-out safehouses and eyes in the back of your skull. Two high-stakes operations, both risky, both successful, both the kind that turned heads. You could still hear what the ops guys murmured when they thought you were out of earshot — “She’s green, but fuck me, she gets results. Dangerous combo.” Someone had called you a prodigy. Someone else had called you a ticking clock.

The director’s door was open by the time you reached it, cracked just wide enough to invite or intimidate — maybe both. You didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

The office was quiet as a confession booth. Dust hung in slats of pale gold where sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the threadbare carpet. Everything inside was brown or brass or beige — like the room had been frozen in time somewhere around the Cold War. The air carried the scent of varnish and aging leather, a hint of cigar smoke clinging to the walls like a memory.

Director Halvorsen didn’t look up. He sat with his shoulders hunched in his chair like the weight of the country lived between his blades, hands folded over a manila file so thick it could’ve doubled as a brick. Red stamps bled across the top corner like a warning.

You opened your mouth, ready with something sharp — a joke, maybe, or just a little needle to pop the tension.

And then you saw him.

Phillip Graves.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t even twitch. Just watched you enter with the kind of impassive, razor-flat expression that said he’d made ten separate judgments about you before you’d crossed the threshold — and none of them were good. The aviators tucked into the front of his vest were just icing on the cake. Indoors. No need for them. But of course he had them anyway. It was the kind of cocky, performative shit you recognized instantly — because you’d done it yourself in a dozen different ways. You knew posturing when you saw it.

Phillip Fucking Graves.

Oh, you’d heard of him. Who hadn’t?

Even in the sanitized, windowless bowels of Langley, his name floated through the air like cordite after a blast — sharp, acrid, undeniable. He was the kind of man passed around in stories over too-hot coffee and too-long night shifts, his reputation stitched together by grainy photos, after-action reports, and the grim, knowing looks exchanged between field agents who’d seen the wreckage Shadow Company left behind.

Private military. Privately dangerous.

Graves had a dossier as thick as a Bible and twice as bloody. Ex-Force Recon. Decorated. Discharged. Built an empire of black ops and gray morality, answering to contracts instead of flags. His men were ghosts in the field — brutal, exacting, loyal only to their own, each of them molded in the image of the man who led them: efficient, ruthless, and just clean enough to be useful.

And there he was, in the flesh.

Leaning against Halvorsen’s wall like he owned the place. Like the room had been waiting for him.

He looked like war made flesh — lean and wide-shouldered, all hard edges and military symmetry. Black fatigues hugged his frame like a second skin, sleeves rolled to the elbows to expose scarred forearms, veins like tension wires beneath sun-worn skin. His sidearm — holstered, but unmistakably live — sat heavy at his hip like it belonged there.

The Shadow Company patch on his shoulder was unmistakable: that stark, rook emblem embroidered over black and grey, silent proof that he didn’t answer to any flag you did.

His hair was neat, and his jaw bore the kind of stubble that looked purposeful. His face was handsome in a brutal way — not soft, not inviting, but angular and sharp, with a pouty little mouth made for bad news and worse deals. Eyes blue and unreadable, like crashing waves. Cold. Trained.

And still — all of him wrapped in that unbearable, unmistakable Southern drawl you’d already heard in leaked audio clips, in grainy body cam footage no one was supposed to have.

The kind of voice that could talk a foreign informant into flipping — or folding.

So yeah. You’d heard of him.

You couldn’t decide if you wanted to punch him, impress him, or set him on fire.

Maybe all three.

“You’re late,” Halvorsen said flatly, not lifting his eyes from the file.

“No, sir,” you answered smoothly, smile tucked just behind your teeth as you strode in. “Your clock’s fast.”

It wasn’t a great line, but you delivered it with enough charm to pass. Or maybe not.

Halvorsen sighed like he regretted the entire idea of your existence.

Graves didn’t so much as blink.

His gaze tracked you from the second you entered, dark and steady, like he was trying to determine whether you were a threat, a joke, or just another mess he was going to have to clean up. There was no amusement in it. No flicker of curiosity or recognition.

You let it hang there between you. The tension, the judgment, the heat of being stared at like a gnat on a windshield. Let it hang, because you refused to be the one to break.

Halvorsen didn’t waste time with niceties. His hand made a lazy gesture toward the figure still parked by the far wall like a statue carved out of discipline and disdain. “Commander Phillip Graves,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Shadow Company. He’ll be handling security for your operation in Tbilisi.”

You turned toward Graves with exaggerated slowness, letting the silence stretch just long enough to register as attitude. Your gaze slid over him from head to toe, all five-something feet of regulation-grade menace wrapped in matte black and dark tactical gear. Your smile curled like honey left out in the sun — golden, sweet, and just starting to rot at the edges.

“Overseeing me, huh?” you said, sugar in your voice like it cost nothing. “Lucky you.”

There was a twitch. Just a flicker in his brow, the kind of minute response that said you’d gotten under his skin — barely, but enough. It almost made you grin.

But his reply was sharp, exact. Like a knife drawn clean across a whetstone.

“Not you,” he said, voice low and clipped, like he’d rehearsed this kind of correction a hundred times. “The op. Let’s get something straight, sweetheart — I don’t babysit.”

The word hit like a slap. You blinked. Once. Then let out a laugh — not loud, but sharp and incredulous. You turned your head toward Halvorsen like you couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“Sweetheart?” you echoed, tone cutting now, edges gleaming. “You serious? This is the guy?”

Your tone walked the line between insult and entertainment, but Graves was already moving. He stepped off the wall with the slow, purposeful motion of a man who knew he didn’t have to rush to make a point. Heavy. Grounded. The kind that rearranged the atmosphere in a room just by standing in it.

“This guy,” he drawled, steel beneath the Southern lilt, “has been cleaning up shitshows like yours since you were still figuring out how to spell ‘covert.’ And I don’t have time to waste on mouthy little analysts with something to prove.”

Your smile vanished, gone like a switch flipped.

You took a step toward him, the air between you sharpening like glass dust in your throat. “I’m not an analyst,” you said, voice flint-hard. “I pulled intel from three wet sources in fourteen days. Two of them walked in wearing vests — I still got what we needed. The third one? Your people didn’t even know he existed until I bled it out of him. So yeah, I earned this op. And I’m not interested in measuring dicks in a briefing room.”

Graves’s eyes tracked you slowly. A scan. Not the kind that undressed — no, this was colder. More precise. He was calculating threat level, liability, maybe wondering what it would take to shut you up — permanently or otherwise.

“I’m interested in keeping you alive,” he said, so quiet it almost didn’t register at first. “Even if you make that real goddamn difficult.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a fact, stated like mission protocol. Your heart kicked once — not out of fear, but adrenaline. You were used to control. You weren’t used to men like him trying to snatch it from you mid-stride.

You were already reaching for a comeback — something sharp, barbed, tipped with just enough venom to leave a mark — when Halvorsen finally cut through the tension with a groan like he had a migraine blooming behind both eyes.

“Enough,” he said, flattening a palm against the thick manila file on his desk. “Both of you.”

The room quieted, but the heat lingered.

“We don’t have the luxury of backup on this,” Halvorsen went on. “It’s the two of you, a few Shadows, a stripped-down convoy unit, and one goddamn window of contact. The source was crystal clear — he talks to her, or he doesn’t talk at all. That makes her the priority. Graves, I want her breathing until we get what we need.”

He paused, eyes like twin pins behind his glasses.

“Preferably longer.”

Graves exhaled through his nose. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. Bone-dry. Almost bored.

Halvorsen turned his attention to you next, and the shift in his gaze was like a sudden drop in temperature. “And you,” he said slowly, the warning in his voice thick as smoke. “If you want to keep playing with the big boys, you’d better learn when to shut the hell up.”

You gave a little salute, two fingers pressed to your temple in mocking compliance.

“Sir, yes sir.”

Graves muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch the exact words, but the tone said it all — disdain, mostly. A touch of disbelief. But it was the look he gave you that really spoke. Like you were some pampered show dog barking in the middle of a warzone — and he was already planning how to muzzle you.

You’d seen that look before. Usually on hardened operators who thought degrees and dialects didn’t mean a damn thing if you’d never dragged a buddy out of a burning alley. Men who believed intelligence was something that came in brass casings and hard kills, not whispered confessions and coded drop points. Men who didn’t think your kind bled the same.

And yet, you didn’t flinch. Not even a breath.

You met his eyes. Let the tension settle between you like a loaded chamber.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” you said, voice all silk and static, just enough mockery to turn the knife. “I can play nice.”

Halvorsen rubbed a hand over his face.

“God help me,” he muttered. “You two are gonna get along just fine.”

⟡

The safehouse was falling apart in the way old things do when time forgets them. A skeleton of gray concrete perched on the city’s bleeding edge, its cracked foundation veined with creeping moss and spiderweb fractures that snaked across the walls like old scars. Rebar jutted from broken corners like rusted ribs, skeletal fingers clawing at the air. The windows — or what was left of them — were jagged holes lined with splinters and dust, long since abandoned by glass, left open to the stink of the city and the press of the night.

Inside, the air was thick. Close. It smelled of old sweat and diesel fumes, the tang of coppery blood hanging heavy near the far wall, and something deeper — something fungal and sour blooming in the rotting plaster. It clung to your skin, wormed its way into your hair and your throat, made every breath feel like it carried grit. This wasn’t shelter. It was a last resort. The kind of place you hoped didn’t collapse before your exfil came through.

Outside, the city simmered. Tbilisi after dark was a different creature altogether — jagged and sharp, purpled by twilight and bruised with smoke. Stray dogs barked in alleyways like they were mourning something lost. Somewhere far off, a car backfired — or maybe it didn’t — and the pop-pop echoed between the buildings like an old wound reopening. This wasn’t just a city with teeth.

It was already chewing on you.

Inside, the stillness wasn’t peace. It was pressure. Like the air itself had crouched low, waiting for the next burst of violence.

Graves sat in the far corner, hunched slightly in a rust-bitten folding chair beneath the single hanging bulb that swung like a pendulum in the stagnant air. The light cast him in harsh slices — bright across his jaw, then swallowed in shadow again, like he was only half real. His right arm was stripped bare to the shoulder, the shredded sleeve of his fatigues lying in a bloodied heap on the floor beside him. The wound was a raw, ugly stripe across the meat of his bicep, black-red and crusted with dust. A graze, but deep enough to throb. Deep enough to scar.

You were still standing.

Back to the far wall, arms crossed, shoulders tight and burning. The adrenaline was still alive in you, coiled beneath your ribs like a nest of hornets, buzzing and twitching with every shallow breath. You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t relax. Not with the memory still clawing behind your eyes — vivid and brutal.

The meet.

The contact’s body snapping back like a marionette with its strings cut.

The way his head had cracked open against the pavement, blood running in fast little rivers between the cobblestones. The staccato of gunfire. The whine of ricochet.

The flash of Graves in your periphery, barreling into you like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs before your brain could even catch up. You’d hit the ground hard. You could still feel the bite of concrete in your spine. Still hear the grit in Graves’s voice barking orders through the chaos, the sheer velocity of him moving on top of you — louder than instinct, faster than fear.

And now here you both were. Bloody. Breathing. Fucked.

You didn’t realize you were staring until he looked up.

His eyes met yours beneath the low light. Pale and sharp, the kind of look that cut through skin and muscle and pride alike. His mouth twitched — almost a smirk, but it didn’t quite make it. Too tired. Too raw.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he said, drawl rough and edged with gravel, “I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re worried.”

You blinked once. Your jaw tightened.

“I’m trying to decide if you’re a complete idiot.”

He huffed through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching again. This time it hurt — he winced, his shoulder shifting as he rolled it, and the pain must’ve crested because his body went still for a beat. One of his Shadows — Corporal Ives, maybe — stood near the window, scanning the dark street below, rifle held loose but ready. The other three cleaned their weapons around the small wooden table in the corner with methodical precision, calm like men who’d spent half their lives waiting to be shot at.

Graves reached for the half-empty bottle of antiseptic on the crate beside him. He uncapped it one-handed, poured it straight onto the wound. His hiss at the contact filled the silence, sharp and sudden, before he leaned back against the wall and let the burn ride out.

“You looked like a deer in the damn headlights,” he muttered, shaking a few drops of disinfectant from his fingers. “Wasn’t gonna let you get your pretty little head turned into confetti.”

The words lit a fire under your skin.

“Don’t patronize me.” You stepped forward without thinking, boots scuffing the cracked tile with a hard scrape. “You didn’t have to take the fucking hit.”

Graves didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“Didn’t plan on it, sweetheart,” he said, finally glancing at the bloody rag on the floor, already brown with drying red. “But hell, you weren’t movin’. Just standin’ there like you forgot what the fuck kind of job this is.”

The words landed. Hard.

Your throat clenched around the reply that tried to crawl out, but you swallowed it down, jaw aching from the force of it. He was right. That’s what made it sting worse. You had frozen. Just for a second — but in this work, in that moment, a second was long enough to die.

And instead of you, it had been him.

A bullet that could’ve ended your career, your life, had skimmed the side of his arm instead. The graze wasn’t going to kill him. But the guilt? That was going to go deep.

The silence between you turned heavy, the kind that buzzed in your bones and filled your lungs until it suffocated you. Outside, a dog barked once. Then another. The city groaned. Somewhere close, a car door slammed.

You barely noticed.

“You should’ve let me get shot,” you said, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “Would’ve been easier for everyone.”

Graves gave a low scoff — a sound with no real humor in it, just disbelief. “Yeah? Well lucky for you, I don’t make it a habit to let my assets eat lead.”

“I’m not your asset,” you snapped, the words out before you could think them through. “And I didn’t ask for your damn heroics.”

His brows lifted, slow and unimpressed, like he was watching a toddler throw a tantrum in the cereal aisle.

“No, you didn’t,” he said, tone edging toward dryness. “You just froze like a fuckin’ rookie and damn near got your head blown off. I stepped in because I had two choices: pull you out of the line of fire, or scrape you off the street with a damn shovel. Don’t act like you earned that bullet.”

Your stomach twisted. You clenched your jaw so tight you thought something might crack. You hated that you had choked. Hated more that he’d seen it. But what you hated most — deep down, in the center of your chest where all the worst truths lived — was that he was right.

Still, you couldn’t let him have the last word.

“God,” you said, pacing two steps away, hands curled into fists at your sides. “You’re such a fucking martyr.”

Graves let out a low breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, injured arm loose and bleeding again where he’d moved too fast. His voice followed you, calm and cutting.

“I’m not a martyr. I’m a professional. Something you oughta work on bein’ if you wanna stay alive long enough to graduate past being a paper-pusher with attitude.”

You whirled back toward him. “I’ve done two field ops without a hitch—”

“Yeah, and this one went sideways the second boots hit pavement,” he cut in, standing now. The chair scraped back across the floor with a rusty shriek. “Contact dead. Intel lost. And you — damn near getting yourself killed over not payin’ attention.”

He was too close now, not touching but there, his voice dropping low as he stared you down. “You think those suits back at Langley are gonna give a shit about how cute your mission reports read if your body’s rotting in some side street?”

Your pride flared again, too loud and too fast.

“I didn’t ask you to step in!” you snapped, the guilt twisting into heat, into something mean and bratty and breathless. “You wanna chew someone out? Chew out your little Shadows for not spotting the tail earlier. Maybe if your guys were half as good as you think they are, we wouldn’t be holed up in this moldy fucking tomb waiting for a ride home with blood in our fucking shoes.”

You regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

The silence hit like a fist. Even the men in the corner paused. Glowered.

Graves didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

“You don’t get to talk about my men,” he said, voice cold and razor-clean. “They followed protocol. They did their jobs. And I’d bleed for any one of ‘em without thinkin’ twice.”

He took another step toward you, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

“Which is exactly what I did for you.”

You stared up at him, heart hammering, throat dry.

His wound was still bleeding.

Your fingers itched to move, to help, to do something — but you stayed where you were, arms still crossed like they could shield you from the sheer weight of what he'd done.

“You don’t get to pull that card,” you said, quieter now, but still sharp around the edges. “You don’t get to act like I owe you something because you jumped in like a good little soldier.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t owe me a damn thing. But you’re actin’ like I shoulda let you take the round.”

“I’m saying it would’ve made this easier.” Your voice cracked on that last word — just barely. You hated how raw it felt.

Graves looked at you for a long moment, like he was seeing straight through the bravado. Like he recognized the fear curling underneath it, the shame hiding in your teeth. His voice softened — not gentle, but steady.

“Would it really?” he asked.

You swallowed.

“I don’t like being in anyone’s debt,” you muttered. “Especially not yours.”

He smiled then. Just a little. Tired and amused and vaguely triumphant.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s the brat.”

You bristled. “Fuck off.”

He chuckled low in his chest, rolling his shoulder again with a wince. “You sure talk a big game for someone who damn near got ventilated.”

“Yeah, and you’re still bleeding, so maybe don’t puff your chest too hard, cowboy.”

He grinned wider now, a glint of something almost feral in his eyes.

“I’m startin’ to think you like the way I bleed for you.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your brain stalled, caught between indignation and something much, much worse.

You turned away fast, trying to hide the heat crawling up your throat. “You’re delirious.”

“Mm,” he drawled, settling back into the chair like he’d just won something. “Maybe.”

He leaned his head back against the wall and looked up at the swaying bulb above, light pooling over the sweat on his neck, the curve of his throat, the way the shadows cut across his scarred cheek.

“We’ll be outta here by morning,” he said. “Then you can go back to pretendin’ I didn’t take a bullet for you.”

You stood in the doorway to the next room, trying not to think too hard about what he’d said. Or how your heart was still racing. Or how, in the quiet hours that followed, you found yourself listening for his breathing.

Just to make sure it hadn’t stopped.

⟡

The interior of the Shadow Company transport was utilitarian and loud — all gunmetal paneling, exposed rivets, and the low, constant drone of the engines humming through the floor and into your bones. No real seats. Just a long row of harnessed webbing along each wall and a narrow aisle down the middle. Everything smelled like sweat, old oil, and the rubber tang of combat boots that hadn’t seen rest in weeks.

No windows. No fucking peace and quiet.

You sat with your back to the hull, strapped in by rough military-grade harnesses you’d only half-fastened, legs spread just enough to keep your balance, fingers gripping the underside of your seat. Every jostle of turbulence vibrated straight up your spine.

Across from you: Graves.

Arms crossed. Vest still on. Legs wide. The gauze at his bicep was freshly changed but already spotted through with blood, the dark stain creeping like ivy beneath the white. His Shadows were scattered nearby — silent, checking gear, dozing, pretending they weren’t listening to you two snap at each other for the third time since wheels up.

You hadn’t spoken for the first hour of the flight. Tension thick as tar between you. Until you made the mistake of sighing too loud when he shifted in his seat.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “could you not bleed so dramatically?”

Graves looked up slowly, like you’d interrupted his nap. “You want me to drip quieter? My bad.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t have to come back with us. I’m sure there’s a hospital bed in Bucharest with your name on it.”

“I came back because I have work to do,” he said, dry. “Unlike some people, I don’t get to write one disaster report and vanish into Langley’s glass tower to lick my wounds.”

“Disaster?” you scoffed. “I’m sorry, did you walk out of there with your source still breathing? Oh, wait—”

“You want a medal for failure, sweetheart?” His tone was a quiet growl now. “’Cause you’re sure fuckin’ itching for one.”

Your mouth dropped open.

“I swear to God—”

He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his knees, voice dipping low. “You know what your problem is? You’re a cocky little bitch. Always been the smartest in the room, right? Bet you killed it in training. Bet you had instructors wrapped around your finger.”

You stiffened. “And what, you’re mad you weren’t one of them?”

He grinned — sharp and wolfish. “I don’t fall for attitude wrapped in a tight little suit, sugar. You’re not special.”

“You took a bullet for me.”

“That was tactical,” he snapped, too fast. “I’d take one for my dog if he were in the blast zone.”

You made a face. “You comparing me to your dog now?”

“No,” he said, voice settling into something more clipped, more serious. “My dog listens.”

You barked a laugh. “Do you rehearse these in the mirror, or is the drawl part of the charm you think you have?”

One of the Shadows two seats down muttered something under his breath. You didn’t catch it. Graves did. His jaw flexed.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth,” he said, leaning back again. “Eventually you’re gonna say something that costs you.”

You stared at him. “And you’ll be right there, waiting to charge interest, huh?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Damn straight.”

Another patch of silence fell, stretched taut between the roar of the engines and the tension in your chest.

You shifted in your seat, stared at the metal floor between your boots. “You think I don’t care that the contact’s dead?”

Graves didn’t answer at first. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you.

“Sure, I think you care,” he said. “But only how it reflects on you.”

That landed harder than it should have.

You looked away. Let the silence settle again. Let it say everything you couldn’t.

He didn’t press. But he didn’t look away, either.

When the light overhead blinked amber — two hours from landing — you pulled the strap tighter across your chest, throat raw, hands aching from how hard you were clenching them.

Graves adjusted his own harness without a word.

⟡

Hell was waiting for you when you got back to Langley.

Word had traveled fast. Of course it had. By the time your boots hit the floor, you knew the story was already being rewritten — not as a near-miss, not as a compromised op, but as your failure. The golden girl with the smart mouth and the shiny clearance, chewed up and spit out after one bad run.

No one said it to your face. They didn’t have to. It was in the eyes. In the silence. In the way no one asked if you were okay.

You hadn’t even made it to your locker before Halvorsen dragged you in for your first debrief. Then the next. Then another. By the third retelling, your voice had gone scratchy. By the fifth, you were sick of hearing yourself talk. The same story, again and again — your contact dead mid-sentence, blood on the pavement, bullets carving up concrete while Graves dragged you to cover and barked orders that still echoed in your skull. You replayed it all until it felt like fiction. Until you weren’t sure if you were remembering or just rehearsing from a script.

The shame hit slow. Clogged up your chest and sat behind your ribs like wet cement. You knew you’d been thrown in the deep end — everyone had warned you — but it didn’t stop the guilt from crawling under your skin and settling there. Didn’t stop you from wondering, every goddamn second, what you should have done. Who you should have been in that moment.

You hadn’t seen Graves since the plane touched down. Figured he’d written up his report and ghosted the way contractors do — clean hands, clean conscience. He did his job. He kept you breathing. You were the one who was supposed to bring something back.

And you hadn’t.

When they finally gave you a bathroom break, it felt like parole. You walked slow. Mechanical. Hands heavy at your sides. The mirror above the sink was too clean and too honest. You didn’t look at it. Just ran the water cold and let it sting the fatigue out of your face. Tried to scrub the shame off your hands even though you knew it was under the skin by now. Permanent. Yours.

You weren’t going to cry. Not in this building. Not in front of them. You swallowed it all — the embarrassment, the exhaustion, the anger — until your throat ached and your stomach burned and the only thing you had left was spite keeping you upright.

You pulled yourself together. Just enough. Straightened your shirt. Flattened the line of your mouth.

Then you went back.

And stopped cold in the doorway.

Graves was in Halvorsen’s office.

Just — there. Like this was casual. Like he hadn’t disappeared for a full day and let you twist in the wind while every analyst and overseer picked apart your actions like a carcass. He stood near the desk, arms folded, shoulders loose, mouth set in that neutral, unreadable line that somehow still managed to say I know something you don’t.

Halvorsen was talking. You couldn’t hear what. You didn’t care.

Your spine locked up. The heat behind your eyes came back fast and hard — not tears, but fury. Pure and clean. You opened your mouth, ready to let something sharp fly. Something that would make him blink, make him feel any part of what he left you to carry—

But Graves turned his head. Met your eyes.

And smiled.

Oh, you were going to kill him.

Halvorsen, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair like this was just another Thursday. One hand rubbing absently at his temple, the other already halfway through the motion of gesturing to you.

“You’re one lucky rookie,” he said, voice bone-dry. “Graves here just saved your fucking ass.”

You blinked. The words didn’t land at first — didn’t make sense.

“What?” you said, the word slipping out too flat, too quiet.

Halvorsen didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. He reached to the side of his desk and plucked something small off a manila folder — a flash of red between his fingers — then held it up between thumb and forefinger.

A thumb drive.

Small. Unassuming.

You stared at it, pulse ticking louder in your ears.

“Grabbed it off your source’s body,” he said, like he was explaining the weather. “Figured it was what he’d meant to hand off to you before he got his brains redecorated all over the street.” He let the drive fall gently to the desk with a muted tap. “Figured right.”

Your mouth opened slightly — not for a word, but just to breathe. Your skin prickled. Something inside your chest twisted.

“You—” You looked at Graves then, sharp and sudden. “You had that this whole time?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even shift his weight. “Didn’t feel like announcing it until it was safe,” he said, voice level. “Didn’t know what was on it. Could’ve been bait. Could’ve been worthless.”

“Could’ve told me,” you snapped, heat rising before you could check it. “You let me think the mission was a complete failure!”

His jaw moved — a slight clench, a flicker of something behind his eyes that might’ve been smug or just tired.

“That’s ‘cause it fuckin’ was.”

Your breath caught — just a second, just enough to rattle you. Halvorsen didn’t speak. His chair creaked faintly as he shifted, watching both of you.

Graves’s expression didn’t change. Calm. Irritatingly calm.

“You think I needed to be humbled?” Your voice dropped, low and taut. “That what this was?”

“I think you’ve been told you’re hot shit your entire life,” he replied, “and maybe you are. But being smart doesn’t stop bullets. It doesn’t keep assets alive. And it doesn’t mean a damn thing when you choke on your fucking mission, kid.”

The words hit like gravel in your throat.

You said nothing.

For a long, long second, the office felt too quiet. The air too still.

Then Halvorsen exhaled, long and slow, and picked up the thumb drive again.

“We’ll get our analysts to run it. If it’s legit, we may have just salvaged something from this mess. Could be a lead on the Sokolov pipeline. Could be garbage. We’ll know by tonight.” He set the drive down again, almost reverently. “But if it’s real, Graves just bought you another shot at doing this job.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry, still staring at the flash drive like it might sprout legs and walk away. That shame you’d been carrying all day — the weight of it shifted. Not lighter. Just different now. More complicated.

Graves pushed off from the desk, brushing past you with the quiet presence of a man who didn’t need to linger.

But you turned.

And followed.

Graves was already halfway down the hall, boots solid against the linoleum, shoulders squared beneath the weight of that cocky indifference he wore like a bulletproof vest. You watched him for a second, jaw clenched, spine bristling. He moved like someone who didn’t know what it meant to doubt himself. Or worse — someone who did, and just didn’t give a damn.

Your fingers curled at your sides.

Then you stepped after him, fast and sharp.

“Hey!” you called, voice slicing through the corridor. “Asshole!”

He didn’t stop walking.

You picked up your pace, boots echoing like gunfire across the tile until you caught up to him and planted yourself square in his path. His mouth twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite annoyance. Just the faintest ripple of amusement that made your blood run hotter.

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” you snapped, chin tilted high. “Letting me think I’d walked us into a dead op. That the contact got himself killed for nothing.”

His gaze swept over you, slow as a match strike. That stormy, unbothered blue — the kind of look that had no business settling in the pit of your stomach the way it did.

“You’re welcome,” he said simply.

“Fuck off,” you muttered, jabbing your finger squarely into his chest, accusatorily. “Don’t pretend this was some noble sacrifice. You didn’t do this for me. You did it to save your own ass.”

That earned you the full weight of his attention. He stepped in closer — not enough to touch, but enough to shift the air between you. His voice dropped.

“Darlin’, if I was worried about saving my ass, I wouldn’t have taken a round for yours.”

The words hit low. Smug and warm and smug again.

You hated how fast your breath caught. Hated the flush that crept up your neck like a traitor. You’d come here to yell at him — to drag him for the humiliation, the arrogance, the casual way he toyed with you like this was all some game. And yet—

God, he smelled like worn leather and gun oil and something sharp beneath it, something hot that curled under your skin and made your legs feel too aware of themselves. He still had blood on the cuff of his rolled sleeve. A pink halo dried into the edge of the gauze. He didn’t flinch when he moved.

You swallowed thickly. Glared harder.

“You’re an asshole.”

He smiled then — small, crooked, and too pleased with himself. “Yeah. You’ve mentioned.”

“And you think you’re so fucking clever.”

“Not clever,” he said. “Just right.”

You stared at him. At that maddening confidence. At the crease of laughter lines near his eyes, the faint scar on his cheek that disappeared into his stubble. Every inch of him was carved from war stories and bad habits, and he looked at you like you were next on his list.

It should’ve made you want to slap him.

The way he stood there, full of smug Southern stillness — like he’d just laid down a royal flush and didn’t even need to look. That little crook in his mouth, the one that always seemed one breath away from something cruel or charming, and you were never sure which one would land. You should’ve wanted to wipe that look right off his face.

You didn’t.

Instead, your voice dipped lower. Tighter. Something heat-slick and mean curling just under your ribs.

“You’re enjoying this,” you said, stepping into his shadow. “Aren’t you?”

There was a beat.

Then—

“Yeah,” he said, voice deep and slow. “I really am.”

God.

It hit you like the slide of silk over bare skin — unexpected, intimate, infuriating. Your breath caught, a single hitch that gave you away before you could reel it back in. Just enough for him to notice. Just enough for his eyes to narrow slightly, for the air between you to shift like something had cracked open.

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt thick. Like honey poured too slow. Like breath held too long. You became acutely aware of how close you were standing, how the scent of him — sweat and leather and heat — coiled in your lungs like smoke.

Fluorescents buzzed weakly overhead. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. Neither of you moved.

You should’ve walked away. Should’ve said nothing. But then he leaned in — just a fraction, just enough — and let it drop, soft and warm and awful.

“Maybe next time, sweetheart,” he said, “you’ll thank me properly.”

Your spine lit up.

In your mind, for a brief second, you saw the flash of his hand braced against a wall, his mouth too close to yours. You saw what “proper” might look like, and the thought slid somewhere behind your navel and burned.

You stepped back — not far, just enough. Just enough to breathe again, just enough to make sure he didn’t see how your pulse jumped beneath your skin.

“You wish,” you said, and your voice wasn’t steady. It was silk pulled taut, sharp at the edges.

Graves gave a quiet laugh — low and knowing and entirely too pleased with himself. Not loud enough to echo. Just enough to linger.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

He turned, boots heavy against the tile, and walked away like he hadn’t just lit a match and dropped it at your feet.

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darkmaga-returns · 4 days ago

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The U.S. EPA officially confirmed the existence of government-backed geoengineering programs, reversing years of denial. Administrator Lee Zeldin announced a transparency initiative detailing solar radiation modification (SRM) and its risks.

SRM involves injecting reflective particles (e.g., sulfur dioxide) to cool the planet, but the EPA warns it may harm the ozone layer, disrupt weather, damage crops and cause acid rain. Neurological risks, like Alzheimer's and Parkinson's, are also linked to nano-aluminum particles from atmospheric spraying.

The EPA admitted tracking private actors engaged in geoengineering, suggesting undisclosed corporate or international programs. Weather modification techniques like cloud seeding (using silver iodide) were also confirmed.

The disclosure sparked debate, with some lawmakers pushing for bans while critics dismissed extreme weather links. Skeptics argue the move distracts from broader climate policy failures, blurring lines between fact and conspiracy theories.

The admission raises concerns about undisclosed programs and long-term consequences. While the EPA denies large-scale SRM operations, public distrust persists, leaving citizens to navigate potential health and environmental risks. The era of denial has ended, but the full impact remains uncertain.

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ct7567329 · 2 months ago

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What Comes After ~ Kix x F!Jedi Reader

Summary: Trapped together during a dangerous mission, you and Kix navigate both a tunnel on Utapau and the feelings you’ve hidden for too long.

Word Count: 7.1k

Warnings: Canon-typical violence (it's mostly fluff today!)

A/N: i loved seeing all the love for Kix in my latest poll! writing this actually put me in my Kix feels again. he's literally so precious and would absolutely be a perfect husband. if this does well enough (or enough people ask) i'll absolutely make a part 2 bc i'm simping hard for this man rn. anyways, I digress, enjoy 🫶

join my taglist / masterlist

The hangar bay of the Resolute thrummed with life. The cold, metallic air shimmered under the brilliant lights that bounced off durasteel hulls and rows of meticulously stacked crates. Shinies in crisp white armor moved like clockwork, securing gear, checking supplies, and loading equipment into waiting gunships. The familiar scent of lubricants, ozone, and the faint undercurrent of blaster residue clung to every surface, a constant reminder of the war’s omnipresence.

Kix stood among them, his helmet tucked beneath one arm, though his gaze was far from the tactical maps flickering in blue holo-light in front of him. His body was present, lined up alongside his brothers in the 501st, listening, or at least pretending to, while Captain Rex outlined their next mission with his usual calm precision. But his mind, stubborn and reckless, was elsewhere.

It was on you.

You stood a few meters away, your Jedi robes catching the faint breeze stirred by the gunships’ idle repulsorlifts. The glow of the holo-map lit your face in soft blue, accentuating the sharp focus in your eyes as you absorbed the briefing’s details. The way you tilted your head, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of your lightsaber, was a picture burned into Kix’s memory.

He should have been listening. Rex’s words were clear: infiltration of Utapau’s sinkhole systems, suspected Separatist droid operations, possible environmental hazards. But all Kix could hear was the steady, traitorous thrum of his heartbeat in his ears, the slight tightening in his chest whenever you so much as shifted your weight or brushed a flyaway strand of hair from your face.

He began to wonder when his infatuation with you started. Kix didn’t know exactly. Maybe it was that day on Kamino when you first arrived to join the 501st, presenting an unfamiliar face in the midst of sterile white corridors and the hum of rain on the domes. He’d noticed you then, not just because you were new, but because of how you carried yourself. Jedi often walked with detachment, a weight of the galaxy’s burdens on their shoulders, but you met the clones’ eyes. You spoke with them, not at them. You asked for names, not ranks.

Or maybe it was that deployment on Felucia. He remembered watching you work in the medbay after a mission, your sleeves rolled up, fingers steady as you healed a trooper’s shattered arm. You’d been exhausted, the stress lines faint at the corners of your mouth, but you’d still let out a tired and small, but genuine smile. And when Kix had offered to finish suturing the wound for you, your hands had brushed his, warm and grounding. He’d felt the spark then, quick and fleeting like the crackle of a deflector shield.

But it hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened into something more dangerous.

He caught himself staring again and quickly looked away, focusing instead on the lines of the hangar floor and the scuffed boots of Fives beside him.

“Hey, Kix,” came a voice at his side. Jesse’s tone was low, teasing, but not unkind, “You with us, or have you drifted off into love-struck oblivion?”

Kix scowled faintly but didn’t respond immediately. Jesse nudged him with an elbow.

Hardcase leaned in from the other side, his grin wide beneath his helmet, “C’mon, we’ve all seen the way you look at her. You’ve got it bad.”

“I do not,” Kix said, a touch more sharply than he intended, his cheeks warming beneath the cool metal of his helmet.

Fives, ever the opportunist, smirked, “What’s the matter, Kix? Scared she’s going to read your mind? Jedi can do that, you know.”

“I’m not—” Kix started, but Jesse cut him off, his grin widening.

“Relax, we’re just giving it to you. But if you faint during the mission because you’re too busy staring, we’ll have to carry you out.”

The others chuckled, and even Rex, though maintaining his composed expression, allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch in amusement.

Kix exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but he couldn’t fully suppress the smile threatening at the edges of his lips. His brothers meant well, and their ribbing, though embarrassing, felt like a grounding force amid the swirl of emotions he tried so hard to keep locked down.

The briefing concluded, and the troopers began to break formation, heading toward the waiting gunships. Kix adjusted the strap of his medpack across his chest, mentally reviewing the contents: bacta patches, field sealant, stim injectors, painkillers. He was too caught up in his own thoughts to realize he was standing still amidst the scattering of troops around him.

You approached him, your stride sure and light, your expression softening as you drew near, “Kix,” you said, your voice quiet but firm “Are you ready?”

His throat tightened briefly, and he had to clear it before answering, “Yes, General. I’m ready.”

Your eyes met his, trying to ground him, but keeping a faint glimmer of something he couldn’t quite name, “Good. Stay close during the descent. I might need you.”

“I’ll be right there then."

As you turned to join the other Jedi boarding the gunships, Kix felt a pang of something sharp and tender twist beneath his ribs. He watched you for a moment longer before pulling his helmet into place. The world narrowed to the faint hiss of the seal locking and the muted sounds of the hangar outside.

Inside the gunship, he settled onto one of the benches beside Jesse and Hardcase, the others filling in around them. The rumble of the engines vibrated up through his boots, a low, comforting growl. The doors sealed shut, and the hangar fell away beneath them as the gunships lifted into the upper atmosphere.

The others continued their light banter, but Kix’s thoughts were elsewhere. He stared at the floor of the gunship, the scuffed metal, the faint traces of carbon scoring from past engagements. His pulse quickened as he replayed your brief exchange in his mind, dissecting every nuance of your expression, the subtle tilt of your lips, the glimmer in your eyes.

Naturally, he wanted to kick himself for being like this and not being able to push the feelings aside, like he was supposed to. Jedi were meant to be unattainable, distant. Attachments were forbidden. For you, love could mean danger, vulnerability, a risk to everything you fought for. But still, he felt the pull of something deeper, the ache of wanting more than friendship, more than duty.

Kix’s fingers curled slightly against the edge of his medkit. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not here, not now. The mission came first. His brothers depended on him to keep them alive, to mend their wounds and hold the line.

Yet his thoughts turned stubborn, reckless, insistent. Maybe it was foolish. Maybe it was dangerous. But if this mission went sideways, if something happened and you were hurt, Kix knew with a grim certainty that he’d move the stars to protect you.

Utapau’s surface stretched out beneath them as the gunships banked into descent. The world’s vast sinkholes yawned open like gaping mouths, their depths shadowed and secretive. From the upper atmosphere, the craggy edges of the sinkholes seemed almost delicate, like fragile lacework carved into the planet’s crust. But Kix knew those caverns were deep and treacherous, filled with unseen dangers and potential collapse points.

As the gunship shuddered slightly, dropping altitude, he glanced at you across the compartment. You sat with Anakin and Ahsoka, head bowed in concentration, perhaps meditating or simply preparing yourself for the challenge ahead.

In that moment, as the gunship’s engines roared and the ground loomed closer, Kix let himself feel the weight of his heart in his chest, the unspoken promise he’d made to himself. Whatever awaited them at the surface, he wouldn’t let you face it alone.

The gunship rocked violently as it descended into the sinkhole. Dust and grit battered against the viewports, painting streaks of dirt and shadow across the armored glass. Below them, Utapau’s craters swallowed the gunships whole, the sun’s light fading to a thin, dusty glow as they dropped deeper into the sinkhole’s throat.

Kix tightened his grip on the bench’s handholds, the vibration of the repulsorlifts rattling up through his armor. The hangar’s bright lights were gone now, replaced by the oppressive darkness of Utapau’s cavernous depths. The air grew heavier, the temperature cooler, the walls of the sinkhole rising like jagged teeth around them.

Beside him, Jesse murmured, “Lovely place for a picnic, huh?”

Hardcase snorted, but Kix barely heard them. His eyes, though obscured by his visor, were fixed on you as you rose from your seat to glance toward the cockpit. You leaned slightly forward, bracing yourself against the wall, the faint light catching in your hair.

The gunship bucked as it banked hard to the right. The pilot’s voice crackled through the comms, "Approaching LZ. Separatist contacts on the outer rim of the sinkhole. Prepare for insertion.”

Kix felt his pulse quicken. He shifted his weight, checking his medkit with a practiced motion, double-checking the placement of the emergency bacta and ensuring his field injectors were secure. His armor felt heavier here, the close walls of the sinkhole pressing in around them, but he welcomed the weight.

The gunship’s side doors hissed open as the repulsorlifts strained to hold them steady against the swirling dust and debris. Below, the landing zone, a narrow ledge near the mouth of a cavern waited, but already, Kix could see flashes of blue and red as blaster fire crisscrossed the air.

“Go, go, go!” Rex’s voice cut through the noise. The troopers surged forward, dropping from the gunship’s skids with practiced efficiency. Kix was among them, landing in a crouch and immediately scanning the surroundings.

The air was thick with dust, the tang of electric from blaster bolts, and the distant rumble of shifting rock. The enemy wasn’t concentrated but instead was scattered pockets of droids taking potshots from behind boulders and natural outcroppings. But the terrain was treacherous and narrow ledge was uneven, riddled with fissures and loose stone.

You landed nearby, your lightsaber igniting with a snap-hiss of brilliant blue. The blade’s glow cast flickering shadows on the cavern walls as you deflected incoming fire, your movements swift and precise. Kix felt a sharp jolt of admiration, and perhaps something more, as he saw you turn, briefly, to ensure the clones were advancing safely.

The battle was quick but brutal. The Separatist droids, clearly not expecting such a coordinated assault, began to retreat deeper into the caves. Rex signaled for the squad to pursue.

“That way,” you called, gesturing toward the droids’ path. Your voice was clear, calm amidst the chaos, “They’re falling back into the caverns. We need to cut them off before they regroup.”

Kix hesitated for only a moment, then fell in step behind you as the squad moved forward. The ledge narrowed further, forcing them into single file, the cavern mouth looming ahead like the throat of some vast beast.

The ground beneath them trembled. At first, it was faint, barely more than a whisper of vibration beneath your feet. But then it deepened into a low, ominous rumble. Small stones began to clatter down the walls, bouncing and skittering across the ledge.

“Look out!” you shouted, turning sharply, your eyes wide with alarm.

A deafening crack split the air as the wall above them gave way. A cascade of rock and debris came crashing down, a landslide triggered by blaster fire or the unstable terrain. Dust billowed upward, blinding and choking.

“Take cover!” Rex’s voice rang out, but it was too late.

Kix’s instincts took over. He lunged toward you, grabbing your arm and pulling you toward a narrow fissure at the cave’s entrance. Together, you stumbled inside just as the landslide surged past, a wall of dust and debris sealing the entrance behind you.

The world narrowed to the space of the cave, the sudden silence broken only by the sound of falling dust and your ragged breaths. Kix coughed, waving a hand to clear the air, though the fine grit coated your armor, skin, hair, everything.

You were on your knees beside him, lightsaber extinguished but still in hand, your shoulders rising and falling as you caught your breath.

“Kix are you alright?” you asked, your voice rough from the dust.

He nodded, though his chest felt tight, “I’m fine. You?”

You gave a faint, breathless laugh, “I’ve been better. But I’m alright.”

Together, you turned to face the collapsed entrance. The pile of rock and debris was massive, a tangle of jagged stone and packed earth. Even a lightsaber would struggle to carve through it without risking further collapse.

You pressed a hand against the rubble, closing your eyes briefly. Kix watched as you reached out with the Force, trying to sense the stability of the remaining structure. The effort made your brow furrow, sweat beading along your temple.

“It’s too unstable,” you said softly, “If I try to clear it, it could bring the whole cavern down.”

Kix’s jaw tightened, “Then we’ll find another way out.”

You glanced at him, a flicker of gratitude in your gaze, “I'm pretty sure that's our only option.”

He nodded, his voice firm despite the tightness in his throat, "We'll figure this out, General."

You offered him a faint smile, playing with the use of titles, "We always do, Medic.”

As you rose to your feet, brushing dust from your robes, Kix felt the knot of tension in his chest ease slightly. Even trapped in a collapsing cave, with danger pressing in from all sides, your presence steadied him.

He swallowed hard, turning his gaze deeper into the cavern’s shadowed depths. The light from the entrance was faint now, a soft glow filtering through cracks in the rubble. Ahead, the tunnel sloped upward, the walls narrowing and twisting out of sight.

Kix adjusted his medpack, his hand brushing against the worn strap. The weight of it was a familiar comfort, but it also served as a grim reminder of the situation. They were cut off from the rest of the squad.

The thought made his gut twist. He’d faced danger before, through ambushes, explosions, blaster fire, but the idea of you, alone and vulnerable, struck a chord of fear he couldn’t shake.

“Let’s move,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the weight of the situation.

Kix nodded, falling into step beside you as you began to navigate the winding tunnel. The air grew cooler, the walls damp with condensation. Each footstep echoed softly, a reminder of the vast emptiness around them.

As they pressed deeper into the shadows, Kix felt a gnawing worry settle beneath his ribs. He wasn’t just concerned for your safety, though that alone was enough to make his hands tremble. It was more than that. It was the growing realization that he couldn’t imagine leaving this cave without you.

And in that moment, amidst the dust and silence and shifting shadows, Kix understood the depth of his feelings.

He was in love with you.

Kix’s steps echoed softly on the uneven floor as he followed you deeper into the darkness. Behind him, the sealed entrance was a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of shifting debris settling into place.

The only light came from the faint glow of your lightsaber as you ignited it, casting a gentle blue hue along the cave walls. It illuminated streaks of crystalline minerals and the occasional trickle of water seeping from cracks in the rock.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The narrow tunnel twisted and turned, descending deeper beneath the surface. Kix focused on each careful step, noting the way your shoulders were set with determined tension. You were trying to stay calm, to assess the situation, but he could see the fine tremor in your hand as it gripped the hilt of your saber.

He cleared his throat quietly, breaking the heavy silence, “You’re holding up better than most would,” he muttered, his voice low but warm, "you seem exhausted."

You glanced back at him, the blue light glinting in your eyes, "So are you, Kix. For both."

He gave a soft snort, more out of habit than humor, “I’m used to patching people up, not getting trapped in caves. But I guess it’s good to keep me on my toes.”

A flicker of a smile touched your lips, a small but genuine response to his attempt at levity. The sight made his pulse quicken, a tight ache settling in his chest.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you for months now. Ever since that mission on Christophsis when you’d saved his life with a sudden, precise strike of your saber, cutting down a droid that had nearly shot him point-blank. He’d been shaken, grateful, but it was the calm, focused, protective look in your eyes that had stayed with him. After that, it was as if every moment spent with you was magnified. The way you tilted your head when you listened. The quiet, steady authority you carried in briefings. The rare moments when your smile broke through the mask of command and revealed something softer, something just for them.

But he wasn’t oblivious. A Jedi and a clone weren’t supposed to have that connection. Yet here in the shadows of a collapsing cave, the rules felt very far away.

As the tunnel widened slightly, you paused to scan the area. Kix watched the way your shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the soft sound of the lightsaber humming at your side. His heart ached with something sharp and unwelcome as he knowledge that if this cave became your tomb, he’d never get the chance to tell you how he fells.

“How deep do you think we are?” he asked, his voice soft but edged with a tremor he couldn’t quite suppress.

You turned, considering, “Hard to say. Utapau’s sinkholes run deep, and these caves are likely natural extensions. We’re probably under several hundred meters of rock by now.”

“Lovely,” he muttered.

You gave a small, tired laugh, “We’ll find a way out, Kix.”

“I know,” he said, though a shiver crept up his spine. His body was already aching from the weight of his armor, the strain of the mission, and now the added tension of uncertainty. But he pushed it aside. You were here and alive. That was what mattered to him.

A faint rumble echoed through the rock, and both of you instinctively crouched, scanning for signs of another collapse. But the tremor passed, leaving only silence.

You straightened, exhaling slowly, “Let’s keep moving. We need to find a passage that leads upward.”

Kix nodded, though his legs were beginning to protest. They continued forward, the tunnel sloping downward before finally leveling out into a wider chamber. The ceiling arched above them, glittering with mineral deposits that caught your lightsaber’s light like scattered stars. For a brief moment, it was almost beautiful.

Kix found himself staring at the light on the stone, the soft reflection in your eyes as you turned to scan the chamber. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he stepped forward, his foot brushing against a loose rock.

The sudden shift sent a sharp pain lancing up his leg. He gasped, stumbling as his knee buckled beneath him.

“Kix!” you turned sharply, the saber flickering dangerously as you caught him before he could fall completely.

“I’m fine—” he started, but the pain worsened, a sharp, twisting agony that made his vision blur. He sank to his knees, clutching at his side where the armor plates had shifted.

You crouched beside him, urgency in your voice, "Where does it hurt?”

“Left side and lower back. Feels like something’s torn,” he ground out, his breathing shallow.

Your hands moved quickly, fingers tracing along the edges of his armor with practiced ease, “You might have a fracture or internal bleeding,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, “I need to check.”

Kix gritted his teeth, “Don’t overextend yourself. You’ve already used Force to keep the landslide out of the cave. I don't want to drain you too much.”

Your hand stilled briefly on his arm, “Kix,” you said softly, and he heard the unspoken plea in your voice.

He forced a strained smile, “I’ll be fine. Just a little banged up. Not the first time.”

You gave him a look that silenced his protests. Slowly, carefully, you began to remove the plates of his armor, your fingers deftly releasing the catches. When you peeled up the lower hem of his upper blacks both of you winced. The skin beneath was bruised, swelling rapidly with discoloration spreading across toward his hip.

“Looks like a deep muscle tear or a bleed," you said quietly. “And I’m guessing you hit your back pretty hard, too.”

Kix felt lightheaded, his breathing shallow. The pain was intensifying, a deep, pulsing ache that made it hard to focus, “I’ll manage."

But you were already preparing yourself. He saw the way you closed your eyes, steadying your breath, gathering the Force around you. The faint glow of your saber dimmed as you focused, the air around you charged with energy.

Kix’s eyes widened, “No. You’re exhausted already. If you—”

“I’m not letting you die here, Kix,” you cut him off firmly, your voice a low whisper that sent a shiver through him.

The words struck him harder than any injury. He opened his mouth to protest and argue, but the glow of your hands as you pressed them gently to his side silenced him. The warmth of the Force flowed into him, a gentle, golden pulse of energy that soothed the tearing agony and slowed the bleeding.

His vision blurred, not from pain this time, but from a wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. You were risking yourself for him, pouring every ounce of strength you had left into holding him together.

The pain dulled, and he felt his breathing steady, but as the glow around your hands faded, your shoulders slumped, and you sagged against him.

“No, no, General,” Kix’s voice broke as he caught you, his hands cradling your head as you slipped into unconsciousness, “oh come on. Stay awake, please."

The cave around them was silent except for his ragged breaths and the soft echo of his whispered pleas. Its walls loomed close like silent witnesses. The air was heavy with the faint tang of minerals and dust, broken only by the shallow echo of Kix’s ragged breathing and the soft rustle of your robes against the stone floor.

Your head lolled against his shoulder, your skin cool beneath his gloved hand. Kix's pulse hammered in his throat as he cradled you, his hands trembling slightly not from the terror of seeing you collapse like that.

"Please, General," he whispered, his voice frayed and raw, "Don’t leave me here. Please."

His fingers brushed your temple, tracing the curve of your cheek as if by sheer will he could anchor you to him, keep you tethered to this fragile moment. Your eyelids fluttered, lashes casting faint shadows, and his heart caught painfully.

Then, you let in a soft inhale, shallow but steady. Relief flooded him, so sharp it made his vision blur.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice cracking on the word. "You’re okay. You’re still here."

You stirred faintly, your weight shifting against him. Your voice was barely a whisper, "Kix?"

"Right here," he said, tightening his hold as if he could shield you from the cold, the fear, the crushing weight of rock above them, "You’re good. I’ve got you."

Your brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to sit up. But he was already guiding you back down, his hands steady but gentle.

"Don’t move too fast," he said softly, "You passed out after healing me."

Realization dawned in your eyes, along with a flicker of guilt, "Oh, Kix. I'm so sorry. I-"

"I know," he interrupted, his voice rough with emotion, "But you scared me half to death."

Your lips quirked faintly, the shadow of a smile ghosting across them, "That’s not an easy thing to do."

Kix let out a shaky breath, a sound that was almost a laugh but caught somewhere between relief and exhaustion. He brushed a thumb lightly along your cheek, the touch intimate in a way neither of you had dared before. "You didn't have to do that," he whispered. "You gave everything you had left."

"But for you though," you murmured, the words so soft they might have been a thought.

He closed his eyes briefly, the weight of those words settling deep in his chest. When he opened them, he saw you watching him, your gaze tired but steady.

"How’s your side?" you asked, your voice still faint.

"Never better," he replied, though the truth was more complicated. The pain was a dull throb now, numbed by your Force healing, but he could faintly feel lingering pinches. Still, he wasn’t about to tell you that.

"Good. Then let's get out of here."

Kix hesitated, then gently shifted you into a more comfortable position, resting your head on his lap. He leaned back against the cave wall, careful of the instability of the soil, and cradled you close.

"We will," he agreed quietly, though in truth, he wasn’t sure how. The cave was vast and treacherous, but in that moment, with your heartbeat steady against his, the crushing weight of fear eased. "Eventually," he continued, "let's just take a minute."

You hummed in agreement and let your eyelids close. There was something too comfortable about resting your head on Kix's lap that you couldn't resist his offer to relax for a moment.

Time passed in silence, broken only by the faint dripping of water and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Kix listened to it like a lifeline, grounding himself in the simple reality of your presence.

After a while, you stirred again, sensing his gaze was locked onto you. "You’re hovering, Kix," your voice was soft but tinged with a hint of humor.

His lips twitched, "I can’t help it. Occupational hazard."

You cracked one eye open, meeting his before you lifted your head up, resting your hand on the cave walls to help you stand up, "More like boyfriend hazard." The words slipped from your lips in a murmur, half-drowsy and teasing, but they hit him like a blaster bolt.

His breath caught, his pulse stumbling as he stared down at you, stunned into stillness.

Boyfriend hazard.

You said it like a joke, your voice light, your lips curving faintly in a tired smile. But Kix’s mind reeled, the weight of that single word sinking in. It wasn’t the playful tone you’d used, or even the way your smile softened the edges of the moment. It was the truth beneath the jest. The quiet acknowledgment of something fragile and unspoken blooming between you. Before you could get on your feet, he grabbed your wrist and tugged slightly. Acknowledging his silent wishes, you sat down next to him, legs crossed.

He swallowed hard, his throat tightening painfully. Slowly, his hand brushed your hair back from your face, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw, down to your neck where your pulse fluttered faintly beneath his touch.

"Is that what I am to you?" he asked, his voice low and almost trembling, not from fear but from the overwhelming tenderness blooming inside him.

You blinked up at him, the teasing glint in your eyes fading into something softer, more open, "Well that would surely complicate things." You watched his smile fall before you continued, "but I'm not necessarily one to take the easy path."

The corner of his mouth curved, not quite a smile, more a raw, vulnerable thing. He leaned down slightly, his forehead brushing yours as he exhaled a shuddering breath.

"You’ve been in my head since Kamino," he whispered, his voice a confession, "I thought it was just a silly crush. But then you kept showing up. In the medbay, in the field, everywhere. And I realized I was looking for you. Every damn day."

Your breath caught, your lips parting as though to respond, but he pressed a gentle finger to them.

"And I’m not saying this because we’re trapped in here," he said quietly, his voice firm despite the tenderness, "I’m saying it because it’s been building for a long time. And I can’t pretend its not there anymore."

You shifted slightly, wincing as you moved to sit up, your forehead still close to his, "I don't like pretending either," you whispered.

His lips twitched faintly, his other hand coming up to cradle your cheek, "Then I'm an idiot for waiting this long."

You let out a soft laugh, the sound mingling with his. The weight of exhaustion and fear lingered at the edges of the moment, but here, in this quiet, hidden place beneath the surface of a war-torn world, it was just you and Kix. No ranks, no orders, no looming battles. Just a man and a woman, leaning into each other because it was all they had.

Kix’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, tracing the curve of your smile. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretched between you. But instead of closing the distance, he simply rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the hush of the cavern.

"We’re getting out of here," he said softly. "Not because we have to, but because we want to. But because there’s more than just survival waiting for us outside."

You nodded faintly, your eyes fluttering closed, your breath hitching slightly as you leaned into him.

For a while, neither of you spoke. His arms remained around you, steady and warm, his pulse a reassuring thrum against yours. You drifted, not quite asleep, but caught in that quiet space between wakefulness and dreams, wrapped in the safety of his embrace.

Kix’s fingers traced idle patterns along your back, his mind quiet for the first time in what felt like days. And though the cave around you was dark and still, in that small bubble of warmth and whispered promises, it felt almost like home.

For a long while, neither of you moved. Kix’s arms felt like a shelter while his breath pushed softly against your hair. The moment of confessions and half-spoken truths, lingered like a quiet echo in the stillness of the cave.

But eventually, the reality of your situation pressed in. The faint tremor of cold in your limbs was begging for you to move. You stirred first, a reluctant shift that made Kix’s arm tighten briefly around you before he reluctantly let you go.

“We should keep moving,” you suggested, forcing back a yawn.

Kix nodded, though he didn’t seem particularly eager to let you go. He pressed a gentle, soft, almost absent-minded kiss to the top of your head before drawing back and groaning as he got up.

“Yeah,” he agreed, "We should.”

You rose, stiff and aching, but determined. Kix retrieved his scattered armor and, with your help, strapped it back on as best as you could.

Once ready, the two of you began moving again, deeper into the labyrinth of rock and shadow. The air was cool and damp, heavy with the faint scent of moss and mineral-rich water. You used your lightsaber again to light the path ahead, a faint blue glow casting long shadows against the walls. For a while, the silence was companionable, the rhythm of your footsteps echoing softly off the walls.

But then Kix’s voice broke the quiet, tentative but steady, “When did you know?” he asked, glancing sideways at you.

You slowed slightly, startled by the question, "Know what?”

“You know,” he rolled out the syllables, dancing around what he asked, “I guess to put it simple, about the feeling being mutual.”

You bit your lip, hesitating. The cave narrowed, forcing you both to walk closer, your shoulders almost brushing. “I’m not sure,” you admitted after a breath, “I'm not sure if it was sudden. I can see little moments. Like the way you always look out for the others. How you never hesitate to help, no matter how bad things get. The way you laugh, even when you’re exhausted. How you always make me feel like I’m not just another Jedi. I feel like I'm just me.”

Kix rubbed the back of his neck, a faint flush coloring his cheeks, “I guess I didn’t make it easy to ignore, huh?” he winced wryly.

You smiled, the curve of your lips gentle in the dim light, “No. You didn’t.” The silence stretched again, but it was warmer now, filled with a quiet understanding. The sound of your footsteps echoed softly as you continued deeper into the cave.

Kix glanced at you again, his brow furrowed slightly, “I always wondered how the Jedi managed it,” he shrugged, “The whole no attachments thing. Doesn’t it get lonely?”

You stopped in your tracks, the question cutting deeper than you expected. “It does,” you admitted, "But we’re taught to suppress those feelings. To let them go, like we let go of everything else.” You waved your hand, the bitterness in your voice sharper than you intended, “But that’s- I don't know. I don’t think that's me."

Kix slowed, watching you with quiet intensity, “What do you mean?”

You sighed, your voice growing more determined, “The Jedi Code was written millenia ago, by people who couldn’t have imagined a galaxy at war like this. We’re supposed to be selfless, to put the needs of the galaxy before our own. But at what cost? Our happiness and humanity?”

Kix’s steps faltered, and he reached out, his gloved hand brushing your arm lightly, "So, you don’t agree with the Code?”

You met his gaze, allowing your hand to grab his, intertwining your fingers around his as you continued to walk. Kix couldn't help but look down at your hand in his and smile. It felt natural.

“Not entirely. I think it’s too conservative and rigid. We’re not droids, Kix. We’re people. We love, we grieve, we feel. Denying that it doesn’t make us stronger. It just makes us hollow.”

Kix’s grasp on your hand tightened, “Have you always felt that way?”

You hesitated, then nodded, “Honesty, for a long time. If it weren’t for the war, I probably would’ve left the Order already.”

Kix’s brow furrowed, “Left? You’d give up being a Jedi?”

You gave a small, wistful smile, "Oh I enjoyed my time at the Temple, mastering the force, being knighted. I love what it’s taught me. But I also want more. I want a life and home and people to come back to and to laugh with them without guilt. But to love without rules, that would be nice for once.”

Kix’s voice was rough, almost disbelieving, “That sounds like something us clones can only dream of.”

You shrugged lightly, a trace of sadness in your smile, “Maybe one day, when this war is over I’ll find that. Somewhere quiet and peaceful. Perhaps you can too."

Kix’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he reached up, his hand brushing your cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line along your jaw. His touch was light, almost reverent, as though he were memorizing the feel of you beneath his hand, “I’d like that,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, "To find something like that." He hesitated briefly, "but something about the idea of doing it all with you makes it somehow seem even dreamier."

Your heart stumbled, the quiet confession sinking into you like a warm tide. For a moment, the war, the cave and the danger lurking outside all faded, leaving only the fragile thread of possibility stretching between you.

You leaned into his touch, your breath catching as his fingers tangled gently in your hair, "You mean that?”

His smile was faint, but it reached his eyes, crinkling the corners with quiet sincerity, “I wouldn't lie to you. I’ve been so focused on patching up the others and keeping everyone else going that I never thought I could want something for myself. But after Saleucami and meeting Cut and his family, knew I wanted more than just surviving day to day. I want to live.”

A shiver ran down your spine, not from cold but from the weight of his words. You leaned forward, your forehead brushing his as you whispered, “I get that." For a long moment, you stood there, your bodies close, the warmth of him steady against your cheek.

Eventually, Kix drew back slightly, his expression soft but determined, “As you said before, we should keep moving,” he teased, though his voice was tinged with reluctance.

You nodded, your fingers still grasping onto his. As you walked side by side, your shoulders occasionally brushing, the air between you felt lighter.

The air felt a little less heavy now, though the shadows still pressed close as you and Kix moved deeper into the cave system.

There was a shift between you, something that hadn’t been there before. Some sort of openness perhaps. The fragile confessions, the quiet touches, the slow realization that whatever had bloomed between you in these dark tunnels wasn’t going to be left behind.

You glanced sideways at him, taking in the faint smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion in his eyes. His gaze met yours briefly, and something unspoken passed between you.

After a while, the tunnel narrowed again, forcing you both to slow. Ahead, there was a faint draft of cool air, and you realized with a start that this might actually be an exit. Not a clear, wide path back into daylight, but a crack in the rock wide enough to let air flow through.

You paused, hand braced against the wall, and looked back at Kix. He was breathing hard, but determination was written in every line of his face.

“We’re almost there,” you nodded into the breeze.

His smile was soft but wry, “I think you've been saying that for the last hour.”

You gave a quiet laugh, shaking your head, “This time I mean it. Feel that breeze?”

Kix nodded, his expression clearing just a little, “Yep. It smells like fresh air.”

You both stood there for a moment, shoulders brushing, letting the cool air wash over you. Then Kix took a shaky breath and pushed off the wall, “Well,” he said, his voice low and rough, “guess it’s time to stop being the medic and start being something else.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Something else?”

He gave you a playful smile, "I mean we came into this mess as a Jedi and a clone medic, right? I think we’re leaving as something more.” The words were light, almost teasing, but you heard the truth in them, and it sent a quiet warmth spreading through your chest.

You stepped closer, brushing your knuckles lightly against his, “Together,” you winked.

Kix smiled, and for a moment, you both just stood there, the air from the crack in the wall stirring faintly around you. The cave was still a cage, but it no longer felt like a prison. It felt like a threshold. “I was worried,” Kix said after a moment, his voice quieter now, “That when we got out of here, you’d just go back to being a Jedi and I'd just go back to being the battalion medic and we would just pretend this never happened.”

You shook your head, firm, “This isn’t something I can pretend didn’t happen. It’s not just some," you paused before giving a half laugh, "I don't know, cave moment.”

Kix’s lips twitched, “Cave moment?”

You sharply exhaled from your nose, “You know what I mean.”

His smile grew, a soft warmth in his eyes, “Over analyzing everything you say is one of my new duties now, is it not?"

You let out sigh of content, your fingers brushing his cheek, tracing the faint stubble there, “I won't leave us behind down here."

He leaned into your touch, his breath warm against your palm, “Good,” he retorted, “because the guys are going to give me hell when we get back.”

You snorted softly, "Oh?”

Kix’s grin turned playful, though there was a faint flush at his ears, “Oh, yeah. They’ll say something like, 'You finally did it!’”

You laughed, the sound echoing softly against the cave walls, “They’ve been waiting for this?”

He shrugged, his expression mock-innocent, “Maybe. I might’ve let a few things slip. It's hard not to when you’re stuck in a ship with the same squad."

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t fade, “Great. So, we’re the gossip of the 501st.”

Kix’s arm tightened around your shoulders, “Well, if we’re going to be the gossip, we might as well make it worth their while.

You laughed again, the sound lighter than it had been in hours. Then, more softly, you continued, “We need to get out of here.”

Kix raised an eyebrow, “I thought you said we were almost there.”

You gave him a crooked smile, “We are. But I mean we need to get out of here. Out of the cave and whatever bubble we had up around each other. We’ve got lost time to make up for.”

His expression softened, and he leaned in, his forehead pressing lightly against yours. His voice was low, steady, "We will. One step at a time. But let’s start with getting out of this cave, yeah?”

You nodded, your breath catching slightly at the quiet promise in his voice. Together, you turned toward the narrow opening, your hands brushing as you prepared to squeeze through.

The light beyond wasn’t full daylight, instead just a faint shimmer of something brighter than the dark. But it was enough to tell you that there was a way forward.

As you and Kix moved toward it, shoulder to shoulder, you realized something.

You weren’t just walking out of a cave, you were stepping into something new together.

tags:

@trixie2023 @clon3wh0r3 @melonmochiii @alice-in-wonderland111 @marvel-starwars-nerd @simping-for-fives @horsegirl4561 @koskareevesismyqueen @katelynnwrites @pinkiemme @youmaynowdothething @808tsuika @dangerdumpling @ahsoka-padme @persaloodles @soclonely @coffeeandtodd @gryffindorqueensworld @obiorbenkenobi @jedi-dreea @lightning-wolffe

#clone x reader #kix x reader #kix x you #clone medic kix #clone trooper kix #501st x reader #clone wars fanfic #kix is so touch starved #this man deserves everything

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