“Caf Break”
Fixer (RC-1140) x Reader
Your caf shop wasn’t fancy.
One countertop. Four chipped booths. A sputtering holosign that read “CAF & CRUNCH – OPEN” with a flicker that hadn’t been fixed in years.
You didn’t get many clones here.
Too far out. Too quiet. The garrison was small, the rotations fast. They didn’t stay long enough to know your name.
Except one.
Helmet always on. Barely spoke. Green armor with white detailing, scuffed and battle-worn. He ordered the same thing every time: strong black caf, no sweetener, no conversation.
You didn’t know his name.
So you called him Greenie in your head.
And Greenie had come back five times in two weeks.
Fixer was not… sure why he kept returning.
He told himself it was logistical.
The caf was strong. No risk of contamination. The shop was unassuming—good line of sight to both entrances, windows provided 180-degree visibility, and the booths weren’t bolted down, making them usable as cover in case of attack.
It made tactical sense.
But when he sat there—helmet on, fingers curled loosely around the mug—he found himself… pausing.
Observing.
You always had a smudge of caf dust on your apron. You were quick with a smile, not pushy. Efficient. Clean workspace. Minimal chatter unless engaged first. He liked that.
And once, when he’d stood up too fast and knocked a napkin holder onto the floor, you’d just picked it up, smiled, and said, “Even commandos have off days, huh?”
He’d stared at you for three seconds too long. An eternity in commando time.
The next day, he came back.
And the next.
And today, too.
You slid the mug in front of him with a soft clink.
“Double strength, no frills. You’re predictable.”
He paused.
“…Efficient,” he corrected, voice metallic through the helmet.
You leaned against the counter. “So’s a vending droid. At least you tip better.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
It became routine.
You worked mornings. Fixer showed up during early rotation hours. You made the caf before he even ordered it. He never told you anything—not his name, not his rank, not his mission—but he watched you like he was memorizing your movements. Not in a creepy way. More like… cataloging. Like he was trying to understand something he didn’t have the words for.
Like you were the tactical puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Once, during a light rain, you asked, “Ever thought of taking the bucket off?”
He tilted his head. “No.”
You laughed. “Figures.”
Fixer didn’t feel like he was capable of anything outside the mission.
That’s what being a commando meant. That’s what Skirata had hammered into them. That’s what the Kaminoans designed them for: purpose. Obedience. Kill and move. Survive and follow orders.
He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in his chest when he saw you slide him that caf with a smile.
He didn’t understand why he had memorized the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed. Or the way you sang—quietly, under your breath—when you thought the shop was empty.
He didn’t understand why your voice filtered into his mind even when he was on missions. Why he thought about what your laugh might sound like without the helmet filtering it.
So he stayed quiet.
He came back.
Again.
And again.
And again.
It wasn’t until the sixth visit that you reached over the counter with a datapad.
“Can I at least know what to call you? Something better than ‘Greenie’? Because that’s what I call you in my head and I’m not proud of it.”
He blinked under the helmet. “That’s… not mission-critical information.”
“You’re not on a mission right now.”
“I’m always on a mission.”
You leaned closer, arms crossed, smile playful but firm. “Even when you’re drinking caf?”
He hesitated.
“…Fixer.”
You raised a brow. “That your name or your function?”
“…Yes.”
You laughed, not unkindly. “Alright, Fixer. I’ll remember that.”
He nodded.
He didn’t say it, but he’d already memorized your name from the receipt tucked under the register. He knew your schedule. Your preferred blend. The way you wrote cursive Y’s when you took orders by hand.
He knew too much. But not enough.
⸻
A few days later, the war came closer.
There was an explosion not far from the marketplace. Distant but sharp. You flinched when it hit, spilling caf across the counter. Patrons ducked. One of the booths cracked.
And he was there—immediately.
Fixer pushed through the front entrance before the echoes even died out, blaster raised, visor scanning the room. He found you kneeling behind the counter, heart racing, but unhurt.
You looked up.
“…Fixer?”
He crossed to you fast, like the space between you was an obstacle to eliminate.
“Status?”
“I’m fine.”
He didn’t answer. He just knelt in front of you, one gloved hand gently resting on your shoulder, scanning you for wounds like you were a member of his squad.
You put your hand over his. “I told you I’m okay.”
There was silence. Then—very slowly—he retracted his hand.
“I’m glad.”
You smiled, a little breathless. “You’re not supposed to get attached to civilians, you know.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
“I know that, too.”
And this time, you reached for his hand. Not as a test. As an answer.
“Good,” you said softly.
He didn’t respond. Not verbally.
But he didn’t let go.
The warmth of your hand lingered in his glove longer than it should have.
Fixer didn’t move at first. Your fingers were still resting gently against his, your eyes steady on his visor, like you could see the man under the armor. Maybe you could.
But then—
“Fixer, move! We’ve got heat east side, half klick. Now!”
Boss.
Fixer’s helmet comm crackled with urgency. Nothing friendly. All business.
He stood abruptly, the shift from human to commando so clean it almost hurt.
You blinked. “Fixer—?”
But he was already backing away, rifle primed.
“Stay inside,” he said shortly. “Secure the back door. Bolt it.”
He paused just before turning to leave—like he wanted to say something else—but then Delta Squad’s comms lit up again.
“Scorch, get your shebs on the west flank. Sev, overwatch from the north tower. We’re drawing them in.”
Fixer was gone.
⸻
Outside, the air was sharp with smoke and ozone.
A low-flying transport had been taken out above the market square—probably a Republic one—and the Separatist droids were crawling from alleyways and downed cargo haulers like insects swarming a carcass. Civilians screamed in the distance. Blaster fire echoed in tight bursts. Close.
Fixer moved with precision, slipping into cover beside Boss, who was already giving orders like the leader he was.
“Sev’s in position. Scorch is making a mess—”
“Hey! Controlled chaos!” Scorch’s voice chirped over comms, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion and a cheer. “They loved that one.”
Boss didn’t flinch. “Fixer, tighten the east corridor. Thermal count says another squad’s flanking through the maintenance tunnels.”
Fixer nodded. “On it.”
“Wait, you came from the caf shop, right?” Scorch broke in again, teasing. “See your girlfriend?”
Fixer didn’t respond.
Sev’s dry voice cut in from the high perch. “Confirmed: Fixer’s still pretending he doesn’t care. Target rich environment out here, by the way.”
Boss sighed. “Focus.”
“I am focused,” Scorch muttered. “Focused on how Fixer only starts calling for backup after he’s finished checking on his civilian crush.”
“Mission protocol prioritizes non-combatant safety,” Fixer replied flatly, already sweeping a corner with his DC-17m.
“Oh sure,” Scorch drawled, “real tactical of you to hold her hand first.”
There was a brief silence on comms. Boss might’ve smirked behind his visor. Sev definitely did.
Fixer didn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, he tapped a few commands into his HUD, redirected two proximity mines, and crouched behind a stack of durasteel crates near the alley entrance.
“Contact,” he said coolly.
The moment the droids stepped into range, his trap triggered—concise, brutal, clean.
Three droids dropped. One limped, firing blindly. Fixer silenced it with a single shot.
“Boring as ever,” Sev muttered from above, “but effective.”
“Hey,” Scorch chimed in again, still grinning. “You think if we all survive this, Fixer will ask her out? Or will he file a formal requisition request for feelings first?”
Fixer adjusted his grip on the rifle. “I’m removing your access to my armor diagnostics.”
“You’d have to admit you have emotions to do that, Fixer.”
“Scorch. Focus.” Boss’s voice was flat, but even he sounded amused now.
Delta moved like a single organism—tight communication, seamless roles. Boss pushed forward through the square, marking targets. Scorch covered left, laughing and setting a charge with a little too much enthusiasm. Sev picked enemies off from above with clinical detachment. And Fixer—silent, efficient—was always one step ahead, rerouting their tech, coordinating their intel, watching every back but never speaking unless necessary.
But even as he moved through the field, his mind flickered once—briefly—to the warmth of your hand. Your voice. The way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another armored shadow walking into fire.
It made him hesitate, just for half a heartbeat.
Enough for a B2 to round the corner and raise its arm.
The blaster charge lit up red.
Fixer ducked—too slow.
The bolt clipped his shoulder plate, sending him sprawling behind cover.
“Fixer, report!” Boss barked.
“Still operational,” Fixer said through gritted teeth, locking down the pain response. “Hit left pauldron. Armor held.”
“You good?” Scorch piped up.
“Focus on the droids,” Fixer snapped.
But he wasn’t angry.
Not really.
He was… rattled. Not by the injury. By the distraction.
You.
⸻
Back inside the caf shop, the attack faded into muffled blasts and distant fire.
You stayed behind the counter, just like he said, listening. Waiting.
And worrying.
He had said he was always on a mission.
But now, you were his distraction.
And whether that was a danger or something more… you weren’t sure.
Not yet.
But you planned to find out.
The front bell above the caf shop door gave a soft ding as it opened, and you were already halfway around the counter before you even saw who it was.
Fixer stepped in, pauldron scorched, boots heavy with ash and grime, but otherwise unscathed. Your eyes immediately snapped to the dark blast mark burned into the green-painted armor at his shoulder.
“You’re hit,” you blurted, crossing to him fast. “Are you—?”
“It didn’t breach,” Fixer said flatly, already raising a gloved hand as if to calm you. “Armor held.”
You frowned. “Then why is it black?”
“Because that’s what happens when you’re shot,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Smartass,” you muttered under your breath, then caught yourself and looked up at him. “You scared me.”
He hesitated.
The visor tilted slightly—just enough for the gesture to feel human.
“…Didn’t mean to,” he said.
You exhaled and reached toward the damaged armor before pausing. “May I?”
He nodded once.
Your fingers ghosted over the edge of the charred plate. “I don’t see any cracks. Must’ve been a glancing shot.”
“It was close.” A beat. “Got distracted.”
You looked up. “By what?”
He paused.
“…By nothing,” Fixer said quickly, though even he knew it wasn’t convincing.
The moment stretched—almost something there between you, something unspoken—until the door slammed open again behind him.
Ding!
“Oh, look who’s still alive,” Scorch called, already marching in and tracking mud across the floor like it was a personal hobby. Sev followed, glowering at the bell above the door like it had offended him.
Scorch spun toward you with a grin. “Hope you’re not charging for emotional trauma because this one’s racked up a tab.”
You stifled a laugh as Fixer’s shoulders stiffened.
“Don’t you have ordinance to prep?” he said, still facing you but clearly addressing the clowns behind him.
“We did that already,” Sev said dryly. “Between Scorch’s interpretive dance through the war zone and your heroic trip back here.”
“Very heroic,” Scorch added, sauntering toward a table in the corner and dropping heavily into a chair. “He braved fire for caf and companionship. That’s love.”
Fixer didn’t even look at them. “I will incapacitate you both.”
“That’s the most romantic thing he’s ever said to us,” Scorch said, placing a hand on his heart. “He cares, Sev.”
“Threats of violence are usually how I express affection,” Sev stated, sitting across from his brother and immediately flipping over the sugar jar to poke at it with a spoon.
You tried very, very hard not to laugh.
Fixer finally turned, slowly, helmet tilting in their direction. “If either of you speaks again before I walk out of this shop, I’m initiating lockdown protocol in your armor suits.”
“Oh no,” Scorch gasped, hands in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare run a diagnostic loop on my HUD in the middle of a firefight!”
“Or reroute his targeting overlay to display motivational quotes,” Sev added blandly. “‘You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’”
“‘Live, laugh, lob a thermal.’”
You couldn’t hold it in anymore. A laugh escaped, bright and warm.
Fixer turned back to you, somehow looking both flustered and resigned despite the expressionless helmet.
“Sorry about them,” he said simply.
“I kind of love them,” you said. “In a ‘please don’t ever leave them unsupervised with anything explosive’ way.”
“Too late for that,” Sev said, deadpan. Almost staring into Scorch’s soul.
Scorch waved. “Tell him how much you love him, too! It’ll be great. Cathartic. Might even make his audio receptors short-circuit.”
Fixer sighed audibly through the comm, a long-suffering sound. “I’m going to detonate your ration packs.”
“Bold of you to assume I don’t already eat explosives.”
Sev nodded. “He does. It’s a problem.”
Fixer shook his head and leaned just a little closer to you, as if to reclaim some fraction of normalcy.
“You’re okay?” he asked again, quieter now.
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”
He shifted slightly on his feet. “…I’ll check in again before we redeploy.”
“Looking forward to it.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. And then, with the softest rasp of durasteel, he stepped back, already preparing to rejoin the chaos he’d walked away from.
“Don’t worry,” you called after him, grinning as Sev and Scorch stood to follow. “I’ll keep your seat warm.”
Scorch stopped beside you, stage-whispered, “He likes you,” and ducked just in time to avoid a light punch to the helmet from Fixer.
The three of them walked out, side by side, back into the fray.
And you watched them go, heart a little lighter.
