summary: post-mission, you land yourself in the hospital with a concussion. in your daze, you plead for someone to tell damian so he won't tear the hospital down to find you, for him not to worry. only problem? you and damian are supposed to hate each other.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
The faint beeping, the low hushed voices—it's an annoying, distant commotion disrupting your sleep, enough to rouse you from the heavy, dark haze enveloping your senses. Your heavy lids peel open, blinking slowly as your vision adjusts to the sight of the hospital ceiling.
The striking scent of disinfectant hits you, and your nose instinctively wrinkles. A low rasp escapes your throat, just enough to stop the whispers.
"—She's awake!"
It’s a familiar voice, you think. Dick. It wasn’t the voice you wanted to hear, no matter how reassuring—not when the one you're familiar with holds a much more begrudging tone.
"I need..." Who? There's an urgent pressure building up in the back of your mind, an important request hanging right off your tongue. "To tell him."
"Hey-hey, you're okay. Just a little disoriented." Dick’s face comes into view, his messy locks covering the fuzzy halo of light above you. “You have a minor concussion, but no fatal injuries.”
"No. You need to tell him." Your face contorts, straining with visible effort to rack your brain for a name, trying to fight past the thick fog. "I am okay. It's him you have to worry about."
The corner of Dick's mouth tugs down briefly, confusion lighting his features. "Who?"
There's that damn question you're trying to answer. The fluorescent lights are much too oppressive—overly bright and sharp. You needed a shadow, someone who would know what to do when your teeth grinds together in discomfort.
"...Damian." You mutter. Ah, there it is. You don't notice the abrupt confused glances exchanged around the room, of how Damian's name was the last thing they expected to hear.
Your lids fall shut not a second after your job was done, body screaming to rest. At least you won't have to deal with Damian tearing down the hospital to find you.
"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.
"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"
"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”
“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.
"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”
Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.
The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.
"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."
Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the trait of impatience passed along their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.
"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."
Dick had barely made it beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.
Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name out of your mouth.
"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."
"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."
"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"
Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.
Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.
There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.
Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter—in a hospital.
“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.
Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.
“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”
Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”
Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre. Damian's gaze follows, and he doesn’t spare a second of hesitation in heading towards the door.
Dick catches Damian's forearm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.
"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."
"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."
Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"
Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"
"Then I will be there for her."
Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.
Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.
When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.
Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.
"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.
"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.
"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."
You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.
Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.
“Dami.”
Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to end.
“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past couple of minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite in comparison to his overwhelming relief.
Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.
“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”
Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.
“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”
The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”
“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.
“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.
"I am unharmed."
"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."
Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.
In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.
You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."
Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.
"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."
“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.
“Oh.” Dick agrees.
“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.
“Save people?” You tease.
“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.
"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."
Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."
"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."
Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."
It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.
Eyeing Damian one last time, he sees the way his brother's vision is trained on you—and he knows his job is done here.
You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian, unable to hide your grin.
“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."
“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”
“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."
Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”
“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”
His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”
“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”
He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still hovering near you. He's been holding back from the moment he's entered this damned institution, and his mind is ticking, battling between his habit to be the steady one, and the crushing need to hold you.
After a moment, the inner workings of his mind switching between his logic and his emotions must've finally faltered, as his fingers delicately cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.
His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.
Damian is affected. More than he seems from his tightly concealed expressions, obvious now that you can physically feel the effects on his body. Slight twitches of his fingers that appear when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down.
“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.
“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."
You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.
"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.
You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."
"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."
"Weakness, huh? Still haven't got rid of me though." You hum lightly.
"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."
"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.
His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.
He was yours. Completely yours.
He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.
"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.
"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."
"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."
Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."
You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."
He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.
"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"
His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.
"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."
He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."
"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."
He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.
You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.
"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly, trying to regain his ground despite being wrapped into you. "I still have my reservations."
"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure softly.
"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.
His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.
You swallow, nodding slightly.
When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly as he leans in, replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.
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(Transformers: Prime) Ratchet x Reader" Snowy Rescue
You're away on a business trip, hoping to get some distance from the craziness that is life on Team Prime -and a certain medic- but things don't go as planned.
Word Count: 1,960
Warnings: Snowy weather, car incident (nothing graphic)
You leaned forward in your car, squinting as if that would help you see through the haze of the white-out blizzard. The harsh, wintery scene on the other side of your windshield worsened by the minute.
In driving conditions that were so far below ideal, memories of a sunny day in Jasper played across your mind like a slideshow. You’d think it was some tropical vacation spot with the way you exhaled in a sigh that was just short of wistful as you struggled to keep the car in your lane. The nearest snowbank that lined the route seemed to be calling out to your vehicle, making it sway this way and that as the tires slid.
If you didn’t know any better, you’d suspect this rental car to be an undercover Decepticon trying to foil your travel plans back to the hotel.
Perhaps it hadn’t been the best idea venturing out at this hour in the evening, but you couldn’t dismiss the desperate need of comfort food any longer- to hole yourself up in the hotel room with it and watch some TV.
It was all a distraction. The truth was, you’d only been away from home for a few days on business, but the homesickness reigned when the sun went down. It was no longer kept at bay with tasks to keep you busy during daylight hours.
You missed the kids; Jack, Miko, and Raf. You missed Optimus and Bee. Bulkhead and Arcee. Ratchet... Heck, even Fowler crossed your mind as you went down the list of faces you wanted to be surrounded by again.
When you’d first told the group that you’d be out of town for work, Optimus voiced his concern and suggested that a bot accompany you on the trip. You politely refused, telling him he should have all servos on deck in case of something major. There was rising suspicion about impending Decepticon activity.
Truth be told, a small part of you was wondering what it would be like to experience a few normal days without Autobots or Decepticons or the fate of the world at stake. Just a couple days of peace and quiet.
It didn’t come as easy to you as you imagined. The quiet in your hotel room each evening was deafening.
Which is why you would do just about anything to not be faced with it right away- including driving around in the middle of a blizzard with dinner bagged up and buckled into the passenger seat.
“I think there’s a turn here,” you said aloud to no one in particular. “Oh. Oh…No.”
It all happened so quickly. The tires began to slide as you took the curve just a tad too fast, and the steering wheel resisted your attempts to correct.
“No, no, no!” You shrieked as the entire vehicle skidded to the right and sailed straight into the ditch.
You sat there in shock for a moment, the entire world tilted to the right from where you sat in the slope of the ditch. “Oh, great,” you grumbled. “This is just great. I’m still miles from the hotel.”
Silence.
Sigh.
Your forehead rested against the steering wheel, and the only thing you could see was his faceplate. Those stunning bright blue optics that at times you swore could see right through you. He hadn’t said much after the announcement of your business trip, especially after you insisted that no autobots accompany you. He’d simply blinked at you, the gears turning behind them, and returned to his work with no comment or even a huff at the very least.
All this happened simply because you’d wanted some time away from the life and death scenarios...Well, not so much.
In reality, what you sought was just a few days without hearing the gruff voice belonging to that exasperated, fussing, scornful, selfless, painstakingly diligent, kind, and most loyal bot.
A humorless laugh escaped you in the car. What had you expected? His insistence on your protection? Ratchet was never one to utter protest if it meant he got to stay behind.
With the car running, you climbed out to better assess the situation. The headlights illuminated the chunks of snow that fell from the sky. You peered at the fender from beneath the hood of your coat. Fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any real damage. It was just a matter of getting the vehicle pulled out. You hurried back into the car, shuddering, and took out your phone to search for the nearest tow company.
Just when you were about to dial the number, a piercing ring sounded from your device as the screen lit up. Raf’s name was displayed, and you couldn’t help but smile as you answered.
“Hi Raf, what’s up?”
“Hi,” he greeted on the other end. “The bots are on a mission, so it’s a bit quiet around here. I just wanted to see how your trip was going!”
Your smile softened. What a sweetheart he was. And you’d be lying if hearing a familiar voice wasn’t exactly what you needed right there and then.
“Oh, it’s going,” you replied, peering out the window. “I, uh… I’m having a bit of car trouble.”
“Car trouble?”
“Yeah, I’m actually stuck in a ditch.”
“You’re stuck in a ditch?” Raf repeated loudly in disbelief, and you heard another familiar, gruff voice in the background.
“She what?”
You covered the phone mic to hide your stifled chuckle as something metal clanged to the floor on the other end. Once the commotion had settled, Raf spoke again.
“Are you okay? You’re not hurt at all, are you?”
“I’m fine,” you said. “A little worried about the rental car. It doesn’t look bad, but it’s hard to say how bad it is until it gets towed out. I’m out in the middle of nowhere.”
There was muffled talk, like Raf was repeating what you said to another. Then, there was that low voice from before again, saying,
“Tell her I’m coming.”
Then, you heard Raf’s voice again, clearly. “Hey, you still there? Ratchet says he’s coming to help.”
“It’s fine, really. There’s no need. I’m about to call a tow truck,” you rambled, panicking at the thought of the autobot medic leaving his post to deal with something so silly when you could handle it yourself.
You could picture Raf shaking his head. Once Ratchet made up his mind, there’d be no swaying it. “It’s too late, he’s locked onto your location and is activating the ground bridge now.”
A bright blue swirling light cut through the snowy darkness, growing in size until the orange and white autobot stepped through it, and then it closed behind him. His piercing optics shone beautifully as they immediately found you. You could hear the soft tic tic tic of snow clumps hitting the metal surface of Ratchet’s form.
You heaved a sigh and climbed out of the tilted vehicle once more, and Ratchet knelt down, one of his servos cupping around you as if to catch you if you stumbled.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. I wasn’t injured.”
He gave a sigh of relief before looking at the car. “You’re fortunate.”
“I suppose it could’ve been worse,” you conceded with a shiver.
Ratchet reached over to carefully lift the vehicle from the snowy ditch and set it back down on the road with ease. You approached it, avoiding his gaze as relief washed over you to see that it was all in one piece. His optics were narrowed as they surveyed the path ahead, and he scoffed.
“It’s no wonder this happened. These driving conditions are extremely hazardous.”
You gave a small shrug as if to say, “it is what it is,” and Ratchet eyed you. “I only have a few miles to go.”
“Not in this you don’t,” he replied, and you looked up at him in confusion. “Come back to Base for the night.” Before you could voice any protests, he continued, “I’ll groundbridge you back in the morning for work.”
Standing there, eyes traveling the length of the icy road before you as it faded away into the white out, Ratchet’s offer was beyond appealing. Your heart warmed at the notion of crashing on the Base couch for the night- as you had many times before. After this ordeal, you were exhausted, and falling asleep to the soft glow of the television on the loft with the sounds of keys typing and the clinking of test tubes in the background was what you wanted more than anything.
“Okay,” you agreed finally, and Ratchet lifted a servo to communicate with Raf- a request for a groundbridge. You got into the car and shut the door, lips pressed firmly together in a line as the luminous vortex appeared once more, and Ratchet stepped aside to let you through first.
You carefully drove through and found yourself smiling again as you found yourself in the middle of the Base. Ratchet’s heavy footsteps approached behind, and you got out of the car.
“Thank you.”
He merely gave a nod before heading back to his station, and Raf came running over.
“Hey! You okay?”
“Yeah, everything’s good. I guess I’m staying here tonight.”
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Later that evening, after feasting on your boxed dinner, you were all settled in comfy clothes, warm, safe, and sprawled out on the couch with a quilt covering your form. The other autobots had returned, and all the kids were taken home by their guardians. Even though the television was on, your full attention was on Ratchet in your peripheral. Aside from his usual grumbling about the others making noise before, he hadn’t said much. Despite having said, “thank you” when first returning to Base, something was amiss. It felt like there was more to be said, but what? You weren’t sure.
You turned, finally, to observe him without reservation. Resting your chin on the back of the couch, eyes following his enormous form as he moved between the computer and a table of experiments.
Ratchet returned to the computer and began typing again. Without looking up, he cleared his throat quietly and asked, “something on your mind?”
“Thank you for coming to make sure I was alright, for getting my car out of the ditch, and…for bringing me back here.”
He hummed in acknowledgement, and then paused, servo halted mid-type. “Things weren't the same.”
“Hm?” You shifted on the couch to tuck your knees under.
“While you were away,” he clarified, his optics meeting your gaze. “This place wasn’t the same. I’m aware that you wished to take some time away, and I respected that. No matter how concerned I was that you were going unprotected.”
You smiled at his confession, and decided it was time to add your own. “I thought I wanted a few ‘normal’ days away from all this, but… as it turns out, it doesn’t sit well with me”
The corner of his mouth curled in a rare, roguish half-smile before shifting to grab a tool from his work bench. You were unable to take your eyes off him, wondering if you’d catch that expression on him again anytime soon.
The two of you talked for a little longer. You inquired about his project, and Ratchet in turn asked about your business trip (aside from the ditch incident, that is). Before long, your eyelids were growing heavy, and it was nearly impossible to remain sitting up. You curled up in that nest of blankets on the couch and breathed a sigh. Tomorrow would be another day of meetings and reports, but for now, you’d enjoy being back home for the night. The beeps and bwoops of autobot tech while Ratchet worked lulled you into a comfortable sleep…
The first time you see snow, you’re coming in for a crash landing.
“It’s not a crash,” Rex says over the com, voice steady in your ear even as the LAAT shudders around you. “It’s a controlled descent.”
“Into a mountain,” you shout back, gripping the safety straps so hard your fingers ache. “That’s the definition of a crash, Captain!”
“Ma’am, if we were crashing, you’d be screaming.”
“I am screaming!”
The gunship punches through a low bank of clouds, and suddenly the viewport is full of white.
You’ve seen it in holos, sure. Pretty documentaries about Alderaan’s winter festivals, weather reports about seasonal storms, all that polite, curated data you catalog for the GAR. But this is different. The snow here isn’t picturesque; it’s driven sideways by savage wind, clawing at the transparisteel like it wants in.
Below, the planet’s surface is all jagged rock and ice, a maze of ridges buried under deceptively fluffy powder. You catch flashes of dark metal in the distance—separatist installations, half-hidden in the storm.
“LZ coming up,” the pilot announces. “Hang on, boys.”
Rex’s hand steadies you by your shoulder, “You’re not supposed to be on the front line,” he says quietly, as if the rest of the troopers could hear him over the roar of the wind. “Soon as we touch down, you head for the relay station and stay behind cover. Understood?”
You tilt your head toward him. His helmet is still on, blue jaig eyes glaring down the length of the gunship, but you can picture the matching furrow in his real brow. You’ve worked with him long enough to know his expressions by the way his shoulders set.
“I am the relay station,” you remind him. “They pulled me out of the heated communications hub because of this planet’s ion interference.”
He huffs, just audible over the comm. “Didn’t say I didn’t want you here. Just don’t want you shot here.”
A beat of warmth flares under your ribs, inconvenient and familiar. You’ve had a quiet crush on Captain Rex since your first deployment with the 501st: he’d handed you a blaster and said so seriously you felt it in your bones, ‘Stay close, and only fire if you have to, ma’am’. He’s all duty and discipline hiding a secret tenderness below, and you’re only human.
You smile anyway, because joking is easier. “Aw, Captain. Careful or I’ll start thinking you care.”
His hand squeezes your shoulder just once before he pulls it back. “Stay behind cover, ma’am.”
The gunship bucks as it hits a cross current, then slams down hard enough your brain rattles in your skull. The doors yawns open to a wall of biting wind and sharp, stinging flakes. The cold punches straight through your thermal gear.
You step into snow for the first time and immediately sink halfway up your calves.
“Oh,” You gasp. “Oh no. Nope. No thank you. I hate this.”
Jesse laughs through the squad channel. “Welcome to Orto Plutonia, civvie.”
“Move!” Rex’s command cuts through the chatter. “Form up! Kix, with the liaison.”
You fall in beside Kix, head ducked against the gale. Your portable relay case bumps against your hip with every step, heavy with encrypted datapads, signal boosters, and enough power to punch a comm line through this cursed atmosphere. The medic half drags you through the snow to get to the connection point.
The squad advances in a staggered formation, the contrast of their blacks peaking beneath their armor the only thing truly distinguishing them from the snow, blue markings half-obscured. Ahead, through veils of windblown flakes, you can just make out the dark outline of the Republic field station—a low cluster of prefabs half-buried in drifts.
“Static’s brutal,” Fives grumbles. “Can’t see for shit”
“Language,” Kix says mildly.
Fives sighed, rolling his eyes. “Can’t see anything.”
Rex lifts a hand, and the line halts. “Eyes up,” he says. “Droids could be using the storm for cover. Scanner?”
Jesse checks his wrist. “Readings are fuzzy, sir. Getting some movement, but the snow’s bouncing back the signal like crazy.”
You tap your comms headset. “External comms are fully jammed,” you report. “Localized squad channel’s stable. Once we get to the station, I can set up a directional beam and punch through to orbit.”
“Copy,” Rex says. “Let’s make it there in one piece.“
Kix hand is in the middle of your back as you trudge the last hundred meters through knee-deep powder, half guiding you along, half ready to push you down into the snow if need be. You're cursing your entire department for not issuing civilians proper snow gear the whole way.
By the time General Skywalker’s voice finally crackles faintly through the static of your datapad, you can’t feel your toes.
“—me in Rex. Report.”
You patch the signal to the squad’s internal channel. “You’re live, Captain.”
Rex straightens, snow sliding off his pauldrons. “We’ve reached the outpost, sir. Setting up the communications relay now. Awaiting orders.”
You sink to your knees beside the prefab’s half-buried antenna, pry open a frozen access panel, and start coaxing the ancient tech to life. Fingers numb, nose dripping, you fall into the familiar rhythm of troubleshooting: reroute power, bypass damaged relays, swear under your breath at budget constraints.
“You’re shivering,” Kix observes, crouching beside you to offer what little shelter he can from the whipping winds.
“I’m fine,” you say through chattering teeth. “How people voluntarily visit winter resorts I do not understand.”
He chuckles. “At least the snow’s pretty.”
You glance up. The storm has eased just enough that you can see the sky—a pale, washed-out gray, flakes tumbling like static on a broken holo. Pretty isn’t the word you’d use right now, but maybe when your extremities aren’t aching from the cold...
The comm array hums to life, a thread of stable power cutting through the chaotic interference. You grin, teeth clicking. “We’re up,” you announce. “Captain, you have a clear channel to the Resolute.”
Anakin’s voice comes through stronger now. “Good work. Captain, your objective stands. Intelligence confirms a Separatist command outpost approximately four clicks east of your location. Minimal organic life, heavy droid presence. You are to infiltrate, secure any data, and sabotage their main relay. We believe they’ve been tracking fleet movements.”
Rex nods. “Understood. We’ll move out immediately.”
You open your mouth to protest—Excuse me, hi, the civilian would like to not walk several kilometers in an arctic warzone—but Anakin beats you to the punch.
“Lieutenant,” he says, using the honorary field rank they slapped on you for paperwork’s sake. “You are to accompany Captain Rex. The Sepritists’ relay is likely using a variant of the same interference we’re struggling with. We’ll need your expertise to reverse it.”
Rex’s helmet swivels toward you. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the disapproval from here.
You sigh. “Understood, General.”
The connection clicks off.
Rex strides over. “With respect, ma—Lieutenant, I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I.” You push to your feet and rub your arms for warmth. “But they’re right. If those relays are the same design, a droid’s not going to have the intuition to compensate for the interference. I will.”
“I can’t guarantee your safety out there.”
You study the emotion in his posture—the tight line of his shoulders, the slight dip of his head. He’s scared. Not for the mission. For you.
“You’ve kept me alive this long, Captain.” you say softly. “ I trust you.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then he gives a sharp nod. “Kix, you’re with us. Fives, Jesse—you’re on outpost defense until we return. If we’re not back in three hours—”
“We come and drag your asses home,” Fives says cheerfully. “Got it, sir.”
The trek to the Separatist station is worse. The wind picks up again, driving fine powder into every gap in your gear. Snow finds its way down the back of your neck, under your collar, into your boots. At one point you slip on a patch of ice hidden beneath the drifts and faceplant into a cold so deep it extinguishes every thought in your skull.
A strong hand hauls you upright by the back of your jacket. “Careful,” Rex says, an edge in his voice. “You okay?”
You spit out a mouthful of snow. “I’ve decided I hate my career choices, Captain.”
“Noted, ma’am.”
Still, he doesn’t let go of your jacket until the ground evens out.
The Separatist outpost rises out of the snow like an ugly metal tooth, dark plating rimed with frost. Turrets rotate lazily along the upper ramparts, sensors sweeping the whiteout.
“Heavy droid presence, they said,” Kix mutters. “That’s a lot of hardware.”
Rex waves you both down behind a ridge. “We need a way in, that keeps the bulk of their firepower pointed the wrong direction.”
You peer over the snowbank, squinting through wind and flurries. “Their external relays are mounted high for line-of-sight transmission,” you say, more to yourself than anyone. “If we can get close enough to hijack the signal routing, I might be able to overload the targeting feeds.”
Kix snorts. “In Basic, please.”
“I can break their eyes,” you translate. “Turrets start seeing everything as friendly or enemy. Either way, they’ll stop tracking us properly.”
Rex considers that. “How close?”
You double check and wince. “Uh. About… twenty meters from the primary array. On the exterior wall…. in the open.”
He groans. “Of course.”
You press on. “But if you can get me ten seconds, I can patch us as friendly and broadcast a false priority target on the other side of the compound. They’ll concentrate their fire where we tell them.”
Kix glances between you and Rex. “Sir, with all due respect, this is insane But it’s our best option.”
Rex lets out a tired sigh, some fog from his breath escaping from under the edge of his helmet. “Fine. We’ll move along the ridge, use the snow for cover as long as we can, then make a run for the base of the tower. Once the turrets shift to fire on the false target, we go in under their blindspot. Kix, you’re taking her in, I’ll provide cover and try to draw their fire. Lieutenant—”
“I poke the circuit boards until they cooperate,” you say, trying for humor, but mostly just sounding pitiful and cold. “Got it.”
The run for the tower is a blur of white and adrenaline. Blasterfire erupts as soon as your boots hit open ground, red bolts slicing through the storm. Snow explodes around you. Rex returns fire in measured bursts, picking off perimeter droids with clinical precision. Kix hand in between your shoulder blades, pushing you forward and yanking you out of the way of stray shots.
You slam into the base of the wall, heart in your throat, and drop to your knees in the snow. Ice bites through your pants instantly. You rip off the external panel, fingers shaking as you jack in your datapad and start ripping your way through the tower’s basic security.
“Ten seconds,” Kix says over your shoulder, blaster barking. “Nine.”
“I’m going as fast as I can!” you snap, breath pluming in front of you. You find the routing subroutine and force your own code into the mix, fingers flying on instinct. Input friendly IFF tags, spoof the turret’s target table, redirect priority lockout—
“Three,” Kix says, voice tight.
“Got it!” You slap the execute key. The tower hums as the turrets pivot in unison, barrels swinging to aim at a section of empty white plain on the far side of the base. Blasterfire erupts there instead, pounding furrows into untouched snow.
“Move!” Rex barks, vaulting over the fallen tree he’d been using for cover running straight towards the both of you.
────── ⋆❄︎⋆ ──────⋆❄︎⋆ ──────⋆❄︎⋆ ──────
The inside of the base was one disaster after the other, but by some miracle the three of you managed to secure the intel and make it out in one piece. If making it out happened to entail the three of you falling out a side door that dropped you down a tall embankment… well, beggars can’t be choosers… You were dizzy and disoriented as you stood up the troopers taking control of the situation at hand.
“We’re too exposed,” Kix says, steadying you.. “If they send units topside—”
“They will,” Rex says. “We need cover. There—those rocks! Let’s move.”
The snow is deeper up here, piling in drifts against jagged stone outcroppings. You drag your legs through it, feeling each step like a weight. Your lungs burn with cold, every breath a knife.
Halfway to the rocks, something punches into your side.
You don’t understand what’s happened at first. There’s just an impact, like someone shoving you hard, and then your legs don’t work right. The ground rushes up.
You hit the snow and roll, powder spraying across your face. The sky spins crazily overhead—gray, white, gray, the dark outline of Rex’s helmet looming into view.
“Sniper!” Kix shouts. “Top of the base!”
Rex drops beside you, blasterfire all around. “Talk to me,” he says, urgently. “Where are you hit?”
You blink up at him. Your side feels… hot, weirdly, beneath the cold. You try to move and a white-hot lance of pain drives through your torso.
You gasp. “Oh. There. I guess.”
Kix slides in on your other side, hands already working, pulling away fabric, checking the wound. “Just a graze,” he says, more to Rex than to you. “Pretty bad burn, but not life threatening. Lucky.”
“Define lucky,” you manage, teeth clenched.
“Lucky is ‘you’re not dead,’” Kix says. “Talk later. Hold still.”
Another bolt kicks up snow a meter away. Rex snarls something wordless and fires back, covering both you and Kix with his body.
“Captain—” you protest, breathless. “You can’t—”
“Quiet,” he snaps. “I’m busy keeping you alive.”
Kix slaps a bacta patch onto your side. The gel floods the wound with a burning-then-numbing heat that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. You hiss, fingers digging into the snow.
“This will hold for now,” Kix says. “But she shouldn’t be running around.”
“I’m right here,” you say weakly. “And I vote we have to do, to not get shot again.”
Rex glances up toward the base, then down at you. You can’t see his eyes, but you can feel them, assessing, calculating.
“I’ll draw their fire,” he says abruptly.
Kix starts to protest, but Rex cuts him off with a wave of his hand
“She’s your patient. You take her, move along the rocks and circle wide. If I keep them looking my way—”
“That is a terrible plan,” you cut in.
“Lieutenant,” he says, and there’s an edge in it you’ve only heard a handful of times. “With respect, this is not your call.”
You glare up at him, gut twisting. “I am not letting you play hero just so I can limp back to the gunship with a singed side and a ghost.”
His hand closes around your shoulder. “You’re a civilian, I’m a soldier. This is my job.”
“I’m a communications expert, not the third in command of a whole kriffing legion, Captain.” You said firmly, “You are not-”
He flinches like you slapped him. “No,” he says, quiet and fierce. “You’re worth it.”
The storm seems to mute around you, just for a moment. Snowflakes hang in the air, suspended. Your breath catches.
“Rex,” you say.
He squeezes your shoulder once, then releases you. “Kix, move her now. That’s an order.”
Before either of you can argue again, he pushes up and charges down the slope, firing deliberately wild, making himself as obvious a target as possible.
“Captain, you kriffing—” Kix swears, then slings your arm over his shoulders. “All right, you heard him. We go.”
You stumble along the base of the rocks, using them as partial cover. Every few seconds, a bolt slams into the snow somewhere near Rex’s path. He returns fire, agile even in the drifts, drawing the shots away from you.
“Stay with me,” Kix urges.
“I’m trying,” you grit out. The pain in your side is a hot, throbbing ache now, dulled by the bacta but still very present. Your legs feel like someone replaced your muscles with lead.
You round a bend in the rocks and lose sight of Rex.
“Kix—”
“I know.” His jaw is tight behind his visor. “He’ll be fine. Man’s stubborn and made of pure durasteel.”
You make it another twenty meters before the world tilts alarmingly. Your vision tunnels, edges going dark.
“Hey,” Kix says sharply. “Stay awake.”
“Working on it,” you say, but your voice sounds far away.
Then the snow under your boots gives way.
You don’t even have time to swear. One moment you’re leaning on Kix, the next the ground simply… disappears, collapsing into a hidden crevasse beneath the drift.
You and Kix plunge into darkness in a flurry of powder and fractured ice.
When you hit, the impact knocks every particle of air out of your lungs. For a few seconds you’re not even sure if you’re alive or not.
“Ugh,” Kix groans nearby. “I hate snow. I hate gravity. You okay Lieutenant?"
You cough, curl around your side, and wince as pain flares. “Yeah,” you croak. “More or less.”
Kix helmet light flickers when he taps it, casting a weak cone of illumination around you. You’re in some kind of ice cave, the collapse having dropped you through a thin crust into a hollow space below. The ceiling glitters with frost, reflecting the light like a constellation.
“Could be worse,” Kix says. “Could’ve fallen onto rocks instead of snow.”
“I’d like to lodge a formal complaint with the universe regardless.”
His helmet HUD ticks as he checks his systems. “Comms are spotty,” he says. “Something in this ice is blocking the signal. We’re not getting through to Rex from down here.”
Panic stabs through you, sharper than your wound. “We have to get back up. He doesn’t know where we are, he’ll—he’ll think—”
“He’ll assume we got clear and prioritize his own survival,” Kix says firmly. “Because he’s a professional soldier and not a suicidal maniac.”
You give him a look. “He just ran into sniper fire for us.”
Kix hesitates. “Okay. Fair point. But he also wants you alive. So let’s focus on making that happen.”
You clench your teeth and nod. “What’s our exit strategy, medic?”
He sweeps his light around. The cave slopes downward in one direction, deeper into the ice, and upward in the other toward a jagged opening where you fell through. Snow continues to trickle down from the collapsed ceiling.
“Up is blocked,” he says. “We try climbing, we risk bringing the rest of it down on our heads. Down might open up further along. Maybe a natural fissure we can use to get back to the surface.”
You eye the downward path. “Into the depths of an unknown ice cave on a hostile world with one of us injured and no idea where our captain is. Sounds fun.”
“You’re picking up the clone sense of humor,” he says dryly. “Come on. Lean on me. Slow and steady.”
“Is this where you tell me to stay awake and talk about my feelings?”
“Only if you start slurring your words,” Kix says. “Then it’s concussion protocol and feelings hour.”
You manage a faint laugh and let him guide you.
The cave narrows in places, forcing you both to squeeze sideways through tight gaps between walls of blue-white ice. His helmet light refracts strangely, making it feel like you’re walking inside a broken crystal. Your breath echoes, harsh and loud.
After what feels like an eternity of shuffling, slipping, and cursing, the tunnel widens into a small chamber. A crack in the ceiling lets in a faint, diffuse glow from the storm above. Snow filters down in lazy spirals, gentler here than in the open air.
Kix stops. “We’ll rest here,” he says. “You’re running on fumes, and I need to check that wound.”
“I’m fine,” you lie.
He turns his helmet toward you. “You said that before, and then you almost passed out and we fell into a planet. Sit.”
You sit. The snow here is shallow, more of a dusting on the stone floor than actual cover. It’s still cold enough to seep through your gear, but the ice walls block the worst of the wind.
Kix fusses over your side, replacing the bacta patch, checking for additional damage. His hands are gentle, practiced.
“You’re lucky,” he says again. “If that bolt had been a centimeter lower—”
“Lucky is ‘I’m on Coruscant with a hot mug of caf and a stack of routine transmission logs,’” you say. “This is… less lucky.”
He snorts. “If you wanted boring, you picked the wrong battalion.”
You bite back the urge to say you didn’t pick your assignment - even giving your current situation, you still wouldn’t trade your time with these boys for anything. You lean your head back against the ice wall and close your eyes for a second. The cave is quiet, the sort of deep, insulated quiet that makes your own heartbeat sound loud.
“Kix?” you ask softly.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think he made it? Rex?”
Kix pauses. When he speaks, his voice is steady. “I’ve been patching that man up since I was assigned to the 501st. Takes more than a storm and a handful of clankers to put him down. He’ll be fine.”
You nod, a little of the tightness in your chest easing. “Okay.”
“You care about him,” Kix adds, casual but not too casual.
You crack an eye open to glower at him. “You’re reading too much into my desire for my commanding officer not to die.”
“Sure,” he says. “And I only carry a medkit for the exercise.”
You huff. “I like him,” you admit grudgingly. “There. You win. Happy?”
“Ecstatic.”
“It’s stupid. He’s a clone, I’m civilian, there are regs and ethics boards and power dynamics and a lot of reasons why it’s a bad idea.”
“Also the war,” Kix says. “Don’t forget the war.”
“Yes, thank you, I was trying.”
He pats your shoulder. “For what it’s worth? I’ve seen the way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.”
You blink. “What does that mean?”
“Means if we get out of this, and you two don’t at least talk, I’m reassigning myself to a unit with less romantic tension.”
“You can’t reassign yourself,” you point out.
“Exactly. I deal with enough already, take something off my plate.”
Despite everything, a laugh escapes you. It echoes oddly in the cave, softer than the sound deserves.
Above, the faint glow shifts as the storm outside moves. Snowflakes drift down through the crack like bits of torn paper. One melts on your glove, tiny and intricate.
“Dink.” He shoves a canteen into your hands. You sip gratefully, the water lukewarm but welcome.
A crackle of static pops in your ear. You jerk upright.
“—x… Kix… anyone copy?”
Your heart stutters. “Rex?”
More static. Then, clearer: “Kix, Lieutenant, respond. Where are you?”
“We hear you!” Kix says, thumping his helmet. “We fell into some kind of ice cave. Comms have been a mess. Sir, are you okay?”
“Fine,” Rex says, which you weren’t sure if you believed him or not. “I lost visual on you when you went over that drift. My tracker shows your signals below surface level. Can you see sky?”
“Sort of,” you say, craning your neck. “There’s a crack above us. Light coming through, snow falling in. We’re in a… pocket? Chamber? Not sure how far down.”
“Stay put,” Rex orders. “I’ll find you.”
“That’s not efficient,” you protest. “We can try to climb toward the crack, meet you halfway.”
“Negative,” he says, voice sharpening. “You’re injured, Lieutenant. You already fell through once. I’m not risking you on unstable terrain again.”
“You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can. That’s an order.”
Kix mutters, “Told you. Professional soldier, suicidal tendencies, one package.”
You ignore him. “Fine,” you say to Rex. “But you better be careful. I will be very annoyed if you die on the way here just to prove a point.”
The connection fuzzes for a second, and you think you hear a soft huff of laughter. “Copy that.”
The next fifteen minutes are an exercise in patience and anxiety. You sit there in that cold, glittering cave, watching the crack above, listening for any sign of movement. Kix hums under his breath, some wordless tune.
Then, faintly, over the wind: “Grenade out!”
You startle. “What was—”
There’s a muffled thump, and Kix scrambles to shield you as snow pours in through the crack in a thick white waterfall.
“Sir?” Kix calls.
A gloved hand appears over the edge of the fissure, fingers digging into the ice. A moment later, a helmet follows, blue jaig eyes peering down.
“Found you,” Rex says.
Relief hits you so hard it’s almost painful. “Show-off.”
He disappears from view, then reappears half a minute later, lowered on a hastily rigged line anchored to something above. He drops the last meter into the cave with easy grace and straightens up, scanning you both.
He looks like he’s been through the grinder. His armor is scorched in several places, a long black streak running down one side of his chestplate. There’s a new dent in his helmet. More snow clings to him than to the landscape.
“Are you hurt?” you demand, before he can say anything.
“Nothing serious,” he says. “You?”
Kix answers for you. “She’ll live. Blaster graze, patched and stable. Some bruising from the fall. I want to check her for a concussion, and I’d like to get her into a medbay before the numbing meds wear off.”
Rex nods. “Extraction’s on the way. I signaled Fives and the others once I picked up your signal. They’re setting up a beacon for the gunships.” He looks up at the crack. “Think you can handle a climb?”
You eye the makeshift line. “With help.”
He steps closer and offers his hand. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
You take it.
With Rex holding you tightly to him as the small motorized pulling drags the two of you upward, the accent is less terrifying than it could be. Your side protests every movement, but the adrenaline dulls the edge. You emerge into blinding white, the storm having eased into a steady fall of lazy flakes. Rex pushes you out first once you’re at the top, and keeps his hands on your waist for a second longer than strictly necessary after helping you stand up.
“Thanks,” you say, breath puffing in the cold.
He doesn’t let go immediately. “You scared me,” he says, so soft you almost don’t hear it over the wind.
You swallow. “You scared me first.”
Kix grunts as he hauls himself out behind you. “If you two are going to start emotionally processing, can we do it somewhere warmer?”
“Gunship’s two minutes out,” Rex says, glancing toward a distant, blinking beacon where you can just make out the shapes of Fives and Echo in the snow. “We’ll be aboard and en route to the Resolute before your toes fall off, Lieutenant.”
“Too late,” you say. “I left my toes back at the first outpost.”
He huffs. “I’ll requisition you new ones.”
“You can do that?”
“Probably not,” he admits. “But I can try.”
The wind shifts, sending a flurry of snow swirling around you. For a second, the world narrows to just the three of you in a haze of white—your breath, their breath, the faint whine of approaching engines.
“Rex,” you say, before you lose your nerve. “Back there. When you said…”
He stiffens. “I was trying to keep you moving,” he says quickly. “Soldiers say things in the field. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable?” You blink. “That’s not— no. I just wanted to know if you… meant it.”
He goes very still. If he weren’t so close, if you hadn’t spent months learning the language of his silences, you might miss the subtle shift.
“Yeah,” he says at last. “I did.”
The engines are louder now, a gunship sweeping in low over the ridge. Snow blasts outward in a swirling halo as it hovers, ramp lowering.
You have seconds. Maybe less.
“Well, that’s… good,” you say brilliantly.
He tilts his helmet, just a fraction. “Good?”
You can feel Kix hovering politely just out of earshot, pretending to take an urgent interest in his medkit.
You take a breath. The air is cold enough it stings your lungs.
“Because I…” You trail off, then shake your head. “I like you too, Rex. A lot. Against my better judgment.”
He’s very quiet.
The gunship settles, ramps fully down. Fives waves wildly from the open hatch. “Hey! You done making snow angels? We’ve got places to be!”
You flush. “We are not—”
Rex lifts a hand, cutting you off. Then he reaches up, pops the seals on his helmet, and pulls it off.
You’ve seen his face before, of course, but never quite like this—flushed from the cold, eyes bright and intent. His gaze anchors you in place.
“Regulations say I shouldn’t fraternize,” he says. “Regulations say a lot of things.” Snowflakes cling to his lashes. “But I almost lost you three times today, and I’m starting to think I don’t care what regulations say, not when it comes to you.”
You stare at him. Your heart is doing something very undignified in your chest.
“It’s cold,” you say, because your brain has decided now is a good time to stop functioning. “You shouldn’t— your head will—”
He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through layers of gear. “Permission to do something reckless, Lieutenant?”
You swallow. “Granted.”
He kisses you.
It’s not the desperate, dramatic holodrama clinch you once imagined. It’s cautious at first, testing, his lips surprisingly warm against yours despite the freezing air. He tastes like recycled oxygen, cold, and something undeniably him. Snow dusts his cheek, melts against your skin.
For a second, neither of you move. The world holds its breath.
Then something inside you loosens, and you lean in, fingers curling in the plastoid edge of his collar. He responds immediately, hand sliding to the back of your head, steady but not demanding, like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.
You don’t.
Your side twinges, reminding you that you are, in fact, injured and standing upright entirely too long. You break the kiss with a breathless laugh. “Ow. Worth it, but ow.”
He rests his forehead against yours for a moment, eyes closed. “You sure?” he asks quietly. “About this?”
“About kissing a handsome, infuriating clone captain in the middle of a snowstorm after nearly dying twice?” you say. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
A smile ghosts over his mouth. “Good to know.”
“Kriffing finally,” Kix mutters behind you.
You and Rex both turn to glare at him. He just shrugs.
“Get her on the ship, Captain,” Kix says. “If I have to keep doing field surgery on this iceball, I’m putting in for hazard pay.”
Rex sets his helmet back on with a click and slides an arm around your waist, careful of your wound. “You heard the medic,” he says. “Let’s go home.”
You let him guide you toward the gunship, snow swirling around your boots. The ramp is a brief incline of safety, the interior blessedly warm. Troopers crowd around, clapping you both on the shoulders, firing off questions and jokes.
You sink onto a bench as the ship lifts, feeling the ache in your side and the bone-deep exhaustion in your limbs. Rex takes the seat beside you, close enough that your thighs touch.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice soft enough only he can hear through the local channel. “Rex?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you decide to risk your life for me,” you say, “maybe just remember I can’t replace you, okay?”
He looks at you, then down where your legs are pressed against each other.
“I’ll try,” he says. “No promises. But I’ll try.”
You nudge his shoulder with yours. “Guess I’ll just have to stick close and make sure you don’t do anything too heroic.”
“Someone’s got to keep me in line,” he agrees.
Outside, the snowstorm fades into cloud as the gunship climbs, leaving the frozen battlefield behind. Inside, surrounded by the hum of engines and the low murmur of familiar voices, you lean your head on Rex’s shoulder and let your eyes drift shut.
Saw the movie last night and I had such a blast. So much fun. Loved getting to see Din and Grogu again. Definitely gonna see it a few more times.
It’s been nearly three years since I last drew some Mando artwork, so I figured with the movie coming up that I should remedy that by redrawing a piece from 2023. Really was fun getting to draw these two again. Might do a few more sketches at some point.
Two years ago today the last ever Bad Batch episode aired. I can not believe it’s been that long. Man how fast time flies.
Feels like just yesterday I was sitting at my desk watching the first ever episode of this show and falling even more in love with these characters. This show means so much to me and I will forever grateful that we got a season seven of clone wars so we could be introduced to this awesome batch of clones.
To celebrate, I thought I’d do a little screenshot redraw of the leader of the batch, Hunter.
This show is my favorite Star Wars show, for a multitude of reasons, and it will always hold a special place in my heart.
RID! Charlie x Bee chibi I'm sorry I couldn't help myself I just love them too much your honor. These are also available as this month's Acrylic Pin merch reward on my p4treon. Also available on preorder in my storenvy
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