[kylo ren & stormtrooper!reader]
A/N: I’m not gonna lie, I decided to write for this guy to start because I figured it would be easy but it is really not. Hahaha.
You were many things, and a problem was not one of them. You liked to think that as far as it went, you were the best FN-trooper under Phasma, in personality as well as skill. After all, you were just about the total package: obedient, good at keeping your comments to yourself, and a complete and utter neat freak. Emphasis on the neat freak.
Perhaps the Captain was a bit surprised when you went up to her after a mission and asked, very politely, “Permission to tidy up tech wing 3-8, sir?” It was hard to tell with the helmet in the way, blinding chrome serving to reflect all of your thoughts and feelings right back at you.
“Is there any particular reason for wanting to use what little downtime you have for this… activity, trooper?” Her voice was measured, and maybe just the slightest bit accusing. Ah. Right. It hadn’t been that long since FN-2187 had pulled the escape card and taken off with the Resistance prisoner. Understandable that it would be a bit of a sore spot.
You had figured that pure honesty was the best course to take at this point, and allowed the exasperated sigh you had been holding since you had first laid eyes on the rooms you needed to fix.
“Sir,” you said lowly, glancing to the side to ensure that only Phasma was in earshot, and no one more dangerous, “the state of that wing has been driving me insane since I watched Ren trash it.”
Pause. Was that amusement? Was she amused? At any rate, the long gaze you were fixed with made you squirm, just a bit.
“No disrespect to him, of course,” you tacked on quickly. “Sir.”
You were evidently convincing enough, or just confusing enough, but the tension held for a few more moments until Phasma broke her gaze and gave you a sharp nod.
“I’ll expect those rooms to be spotless, then, FN-4298.”
And that was the story of how you ended up here, and now, mercifully alone and left to tidy up the wrecked computer pieces and memory drives scattered across the floor by some Force-sensitive and his flashy glowstick.
“All these unnecessary rooms we have,” you muttered aloud, with the could-be-fond-but-isn’t exasperation that most cleaning up after Kylo Ren felt. It didn’t matter if you volunteered to satisfy your borderline twitchy need to have things in order: a tantrum was a tantrum and a mess was a mess. “And he picks the ones with the delicate instruments that we actually use.
“Well, to be fair… it’s probably more cathartic that way.”
You were no stranger to the talk-to-yourself-when-you’re-alone phenomenon, since it struck you every single time you managed to snag a moment to yourself. It helped you think; it helped you broaden your horizons, maybe; it helped you not to go insane, definitely.
“I thought having all this power meant having some sort of balance, too,” you mused, tracing the deep gouges scored in the floor by pure plasma. “I mean, otherwise, that’s just really inefficient. And costly. Well, not that anger is bad, it’s just better to channel it into something productive so that something actually gets done, I guess. Turn that energy into something you can use.”
For a second you actually sort of made sense there; it was short-lived, though, and you sighed, laughing.
“Ah, but what do you know? You’re just a trooper. Not like you know anything about tested patience, ha.”
“And what makes you say that, about balance?”
Sithspit. It wasn’t… you turned, and halted. Yep. It most definitely was, imposing figure and soft voice and all.
“I – oh. Lord Ren. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to overlook my… my rambling. Sir.”
“Answer me.” It wasn’t a question.
You shuddered, involuntarily, feeling a sort of pressure against your skull that wasn’t there before. You cleared your throat, leaning against the mop you’d been toying with mere minutes earlier.
“Well. I don’t know much about the Force, sir, but I’d imagine it follows the same principle as most weaponry: best to calibrate your angle of attack and your target first, and then begin working from there. I’m not sure how well the comparison holds up, but out there on the battlefield, we don’t call the junkies who shoot with no aim skilled. We call them Leeroy Jenkins and rookies and other such things, sir. Even berserker tactics have a method to them.”
Ren was silent, taking – you think – your words in. You could almost feel him mulling it over under the scary helmet he wore (seriously, everyone around here had helmets! At least Hux tried to balance it out, yeesh).
Too late, it dawned on you that you had essentially just insulted Kylo Ren’s lightsaber style and skill. You could feel the blood draining out of your face as the seconds passed. Oh, no. Oh, no, no.
“What I mean to say is –” you blurted, at the same time as Ren lifted his chin and began, “Then what exactly –” and then there was a sudden, absolute silence during which you could feel your lifespan shortening.
“Would you – sir, would you like to spar, perhaps? Later on? Something on even footing, see, person-to-person. Trooper-to-person. I don’t –” Wow, your bargaining chips were weak. “I probably don’t have much to make it worth your time, but I can assure you that I do have a trick or two up my sleeve when it comes to the sparring mats.”
Another bout of silence somehow even more cutting than Phasma’s, in which you tried, yet again, to amend your words.
“I mean I would gladly get beaten up if it means less for me to clean later. Sir.”
This is it; this is when he draws his saber and jams it into your chest for being an idiot, leaving your corpse on the ground to ruin all of your hard work undoing his mess. And all because you had opinions on his fighting style.
Last time I ever have a personal thought, you began to think, when Kylo Ren looked you square in the visor and tilted his head slightly.
“… Fine,” he said, ominously. “I’ll expect you at the sparring mats at 0600. Don’t be late.”
Before you could reply, or pick up your discarded mop, or cry, he was gone, and you had to take a moment to breathe because he was probably going to kill you tomorrow, but at least you had dodged the bullet today.
