Chapter Text
“If you love me, let me go…”
She’d been singing the song in snippets to herself as she cleaned. Not hard to do after blasting it for hours in the privacy of her room following a certain conversation with a certain radar technician/”insufferable bastard”.
But really, she was doing her best not to think about him. Stupid, stupid him. With his stupid blond hair and stupid big glasses and stupid nose and stupid eyes and…really, his whole stupid face. His stupid, weirdly pretty face.
His stupid face that she was never going to see again. And his stupid voice that she was never going to hear again.
“‘Cause these words are knives and often leave scars…”
That conversation never left her mind, no matter how much she tried to push it away. Everything that had been said. Everything left unsaid. Everything implied.
She wasn’t sure if that made it all better or worse. Having that whole conversation, knowing their paths would never cross again. Maybe it would’ve been better to have never heard his voice again. For him to have just…gone the way he did. Even if that had felt like reopening old wounds and faltering to stitch them back together.
“And truth be told, I never was yours…”
When she cleaned General Hux’s rooms, she never saw him. When she cleaned Captain Phasma’s rooms, she never saw her. When she cleaned Kylo Ren’s rooms…
…she didn’t know if she wanted to see him anymore.
So far, following her last conversation with Matt, she hadn’t.
It was a relief. And still a slight disappointment.
After all their encounters, the way he’d allowed her to help him, when he’d caught her, held her too close for too long…
She was not one for love. He probably wasn’t either. Foolish to keep dreaming of something that could have been.
So she cleaned. She would put all her effort into cleaning so she was too tired to think of anything – or anyone – else.
“The fear of falling apart…”
***
And for a few days, that plan worked. Until she was cleaning up her own (mess of a) room and found that blasted communication device.
Momentary ripping open of stitches.
But nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a visit to the nearest garbage compactor. And garbage compactors were something she visited daily, per her routine.
Though sight of the man himself was not to be had, Kylo Ren had thrown another spectacular tantrum of which she’d had to pick up the remnants. Broken glass and wires and equipment. It was sometimes a wonder that she had the cart space for it all, but she made it all fit.
And so, nearing the end of her shift – and all other shifts - she turned a number of corners, down this hall, turn right at another, and she found herself in front of the garbage compactor. She keyed in the code, as she did every day, and tipped her cart to dump the detritus down the chute, as she did every day.
That said, it wasn’t every day that she paused mid-tip at the sound of something echoing through the chute.
Not just something. Someone.
“Help! Someone…of here!”
She set her cart down. She looked down each direction of the hallway. Empty. With a sigh of relief, she bent down towards the chute
“Um…hello?” she called.
“Is someone there?” The voice was faint, female, and somehow familiar.
“Yes, this is—”
“I don’t care who, can you get me out of here?!”
“Um—yes! Yes, I think I can, hold on—”
She was vaguely aware of the female voice shouting something else at her as she bent back up towards the keypad. In her training, she’d been given every single code regarding the trash compactors and been forced to memorize every one. Even if they were codes she’d never use in her life.
Codes such as the ones to produce a ladder leading from the top of the chute down to the garbage compactor. In case of some emergency if one had been foolish enough to dump something they shouldn’t have.
“Okay, there should be a ladder now!” she called into the chute. “Do you see it?”
“No…wait, yes!” Well, at least she hadn’t accidentally entered the code to activate the garbage mashers. So that was good.
“Okay, good…do you need me to come down to you?” she asked. “Are you hurt at all, do you need hel--?”
Before she could even finish her question, a head was popping up from the garbage chute.
“Got it. Thank you.”
“Yes…of course, sorry,” she said, realizing her cart was in the way and rolling it quickly to the side so the woman – short, blonde hair, icy blue eyes, stern set mouth – could more easily get out.
“Really, though…thank you,” the woman said. “That was…quite the inconvenience.” Something in her demeanor gave her the hint that details were not to be asked for. But the woman’s eyes softened for a split second. “May I have your identification, so I know whom to thank properly?
“Yes, of course. UN-0101.”
The woman’s eyes widened for the slightest moment.
“You clean my rooms.”
She was confused. Then she noticed the increasingly familiar armor the woman was wearing. And just now noticed the helmet in the woman’s hand.
“Captain Phasma!”
She stood as straight and stiff as she could, wondering if she should salute.
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you throw me into the trash compactor?” Phasma asked her.
“No, Captain.”
“Then why are you apologizing to me?”
“…it’s a habit, Captain.”
“Yes, well…” Phasma gave her a wry little smile. “Thank you. For this and for…my rooms. Your skills are more than adequate.”
“…thank you, Captain.”
Another wry smile.
“Are you sure you’re okay, you’re not injured or anything from…because I have some basic medical supplies in my room I can—”
“I appreciate the offer,” Phasma interrupted, “but I’m fine. Again, thank you. You’ve been quite a help tonight.”
“With all due respect, Captain, I’m no one,” she said. “I was just doing my job and…happened to find you.”
“Yes, well…lucky you did. I’m grateful to you.”
Another smile. Less wry, more sincere.
“Thank you, Captain.”
Then Phasma put her helmet on top of her head. Simply from her resulting mannerisms, she could tell Phasma was exasperated with something.
“No, Hux, sorry,” Phasma said, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I was momentarily otherwise occupied and my helmet was off, what’s so bloody important?”
She decided it was best to leave the Captain to her duties. She keyed in the code to retract the ladder, dumped the contents of her cart down the chute – the communication device among them - and rolled it away.
She thought she felt some sort of tremble through the floor. Probably her imagination.
***
Later that night, she was getting ready to go to bed when she heard her door slide open.
“UN-0101!”
She recognized that voice. From moments earlier that night. She turned to see Captain Phasma (sans helmet). And behind her, General Hux.
“Captain…General…I’m sorry if your rooms weren’t cleaned to your satisfaction and I promise to do better tomorrow.”
“Not what this is about, UN-0101, you need to come with us,” Phasma said sternly. It was now she noticed the urgency in Phasma’s expression and even a bit in Hux’s demeanor.
“What IS this about, Phasma?” Hux scoffed. “What does the cleaning crew have to do with Ren?”
“UN-0101, you said you had medical supplies, correct?” Phasma asked, pointedly ignoring Hux.
“Yes, Captain, but I don’t see—”
“You know, you should be thanking us for being here, because in case you haven’t notice, Starkiller Base is under attack,” Hux snapped.
“…I hadn’t noticed, General.” In all honesty, she hadn’t. Though maybe that would explain the tremor she’d felt earlier.
“Just what HAVE you been doing, UN-0101?”
“Cleaning, General. With all due respect, that’s my job.”
She was less afraid of what his reaction would be towards her own flippancy and more wondering why they were here. So she turned to Phasma for answers.
“Captain, I do have a very basic set of…rudimentary medical supplies, but I don’t see what that has to do with…is Commander Ren in trouble?”
“Yes, and he’s asking for you, so grab your gear and follow us,” Phasma said, turning towards the door. “We don’t have much time before we go down with the base.”
“What do you mean, he asked for her?” Hux asked Phasma. “He said no such thing, the man’s delirious, he didn’t ask for anyone.”
“Wrong, Hux,” Phasma said, her eyes on her rather than on Hux. “He specifically asked for no one.”
Her heart stopped. The ground shook.
“Sound familiar, UN-0101?”
She couldn’t speak. She just turned and grabbed her small kit from underneath her bed and slipped on a pair of shoes.
“How can I help?”
***
“TM-0177 reported some time ago on a member of janitorial staff who’d saved him from choking to death,” Phasma explained to Hux as they walked-almost-ran to where a small ship was waiting for them. She simply followed and listened. “ZK-0482 verified his reports, and witnessed it as well. Said staff member was often jokingly described as a ‘no one’.”
“…because her identification is UN-0101, and you can sort of stretch it out to sound like ‘no one’?” Hux said as they boarded the ship. The two glanced back at her. She nodded.
“Well…with all due respect, comparatively, I am sort of a no one to the First Order.”
“Every member of the First Order has importance,” Hux said with avid fierceness…probably more out of passion to the First Order than trying to make her feel better. “And no offense, but that line of logic is fucking moronic.”
“Hux,” Phasma scolded.
“Well, it is!”
“I’m not disagreeing with you, but that’s not important, right now.” Phasma inclined her head towards her. “She is. She can help him.”
“Help…Commander Ren?” she asked.
“There was…an altercation of sorts,” Hux said. “No one really knows what happened, we just found him in the snow, thoroughly beaten by his opponent.”
Hux stopped at a door and pressed a button to open it. She followed Hux and Phasma in, and was able to make out a figure clad in black lying on a medical bed.
“How badly is he hurt?” she asked.
“He’s lost blood. Quite a lot. We’ve applied pressure to staunch the flow, but it’ll require more than that to stop it all together.”
She slowly, quietly approached the figure. The clothes, she recognized. His. Her commander. Kylo.
…no helmet. No mask. No good look at his face yet, but there was a face. And hair. Lots of dark hair.
She walked closer towards the face of her commander. The hair. Long, wavy, brown. Matted with sweat, cold, melted snow. The face…
“Oh my...no…NO.”
She thought she was going to be sick.
It wasn’t right away. Shock more at the scar, ugly and red, marring his features which she was trying to make out.
An aristocratic nose, Full lips. The jawline…his ears…the shape of his eyes…his brow…
She blinked, and for a moment, saw him with blond hair and glasses.
No.
She clutched for something to hold on to, to sit down.
It wasn’t. It WASN’T. It COULDN’T be.
It was.
“…I don’t know if I can do this.” Said to herself more than to Phasma and Hux.
“You’re the best we have. The only we have. Look.” Hux gestured towards a nearby window. She looked out of it to see…
“…is that the Base?”
“What is left of it.”
Fire. Inferno. And they were speeding away from it as quickly as they could, jumping into hyperspace.
“I’m not medical, I don’t even have bacta, I have NO formal training—”
“And we don’t have anyone else on here who can help him,” Phasma interrupted. “He would only have you.”
“How do you know that?” she asked. “What if the General was right and he was just…muttering nonsense in his delirium?”
“We won’t know until he awakes.”
“And what if he doesn’t? What if I can’t save him?”
The silence was thick. She could breathe the tension, it was so thick. She couldn’t take her eyes off of…Kylo…Matt…both in one…
“His wounds aren’t THAT serious,” Hux scoffed. “He’s just being overdramatic.”
She didn’t believe Hux for a second, but she was grateful to him for appeasing her. Even if that wasn’t his intent.
“Okay,” she finally said, setting her kit down and pulling out what few things she had. Isopropyl alcohol. Rolls of bandages. Needle and thread. Scissors. From the VERY brief descriptor of his wounds, these seemed the most necessary.
He was Kylo Ren, Commander of the First Order. He was Matt the Radar Technician.
He was her commander. He was her radar technician.
And she WOULD save him.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Phasma said. “Should you require anything else, please call us. We’ll have access to bacta and proper medical facilities once we reach our destination, but he does need your help now. If we wait…”
“Thank you, Captain…thank you, General,” she said.
She heard the door shut as she picked up the scissors. Some bits of fabric had been torn through at his shoulder and along his leg, but it was the wound at his side that was most worrying. The black fabric was heavy and damp. She cut along his shirt to expose the wound.
“Oh fuck…”
How was he able to fight with a wound like this? How was he already not dead simply from RECEIVING the blast that caused it?
“OH fuck oh fuck oh fuck…”
She picked up sheets of gauze to dab away at the worst of it so she could examine the wound in full.
It would need to be sewn shut. But first…
She reached for the bottle of isopropyl alcohol and poured a good amount onto a stack of gauze.
“This is not going to be fun…” Was she saying it to herself or to Kylo? She looked up towards his head, for a brief moment. “I’m sorry.”
She though she heard a slight moan of response, before bracing herself and pressing the alcohol-soaked gauze to the angry wound.
The scream cut through the room, through her heart and soul, as she held the gauze tight against his thrashing body.
“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said through gritted teeth and blurry eyes, holding him as still as she could with her free hand as he arched and writhed in pain. “I have to, I have to, I’m so sorry…”
The feverish screams died with the sting of the alcohol.
“UN-0101, are you all right?”
She hadn’t even noticed Phasma and Hux had entered.
“We heard screaming,” Hux said.
“…he needs stitches,” she said, threading the needle and cutting the thread to the right length. “I…I won’t be able to keep him still. I don’t know if…”
“We’ve got it,” Phasma said, standing on one side of Kylo, Hux on the other.
“Thank you,” she said.
“A little barbaric, don’t you think?” Hux said as she knotted the thread.
“He’ll bleed to death if I don’t,” she snapped, her mind frayed and taut and frazzled and just trying to hold it together until it was over, he was healed, and she could be in private and cry and scream and wonder why.
“Hux, just hold him down,” Phasma said. As they held him still, she took an extra roll of bandages and reach for Kylo’s face. He’d need something to bite down on. She reached up.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. Coaxed. She placed one hand under his chin and gently tried to force his mouth open. “It’ll be over soon, I promise.” The tension in his face let up long enough for the roll of bandages to tuck between his teeth. She stroked his cheek surreptitiously with her thumb. Pale. Clammy. Cold.
Returning to her seat at his side, she poised the needle, She placed a hand on his side and pushed the needle in to make the first stitch. Immediate arching of his back, a cry muffled by the roll of bandages in his mouth. She kept whispering, half-sobbing apologies with each stitch. Phasma and Hux never said a word, but held him still enough for her (admittedly already shaky) hands to get the job done.
At some point, nearing the end of the stitches, the writhing lessened. The screaming dwindled. Kylo grew still. Almost disconcertingly so. She pressed fingers to his pulse point. There. Weak, but there.
“Done,” she finally said, voice hoarse, as the scissors snipped the thread away from the last stitch.
“Well done,” Hux said, clapping her on the shoulder. She barely registered him, she was…she didn’t know if she was hyper-focused on the body of her (radar technician friend maybe more than that) commander, or if she was just hyper-focused on not collapsing in a bundle of nerves, not throwing up, not…losing it. “You all right?”
“Yeah...yes, that was the worst of it. I should be able to handle everything on my own from here.”
Lies. So many lies.
“Let us know if you need anything else,” Phasma said. “For him or for you.” They were already gone before she could look up at them. To thank them.
She cut away at his clothes, to look for more wounds than the ones she could readily see. Bruising, smaller cuts and abrasions…nothing else worrying asides from his leg, his shoulder, and his face.
More dabbing away with alcohol, to prevent infection. Taping gauze and rolling of bandages. She soaked some gauze in cold water from the sink in the nearby bathroom and pressed it to his forehead, away from the scar; he was starting to feel feverish.
Please, don’t let infection have set in, she thought.
She found blankets and sheets in a closet and covered his mostly bare body with them. Trying not to think how she had the perfect opportunity to study his body. Determine whether or not he “had an eight-pack”. If he was “shredded”. So she could tell Matt.
Only she couldn’t.
She settled down in a chair at the head of the bed, next to his head. His scarred face.
This face she knew and didn’t know.
The face of her friend, seen many times before. The face of her commander, never seen before.
One and the same face.
“I hear his face is the best.”
Even with the scar…how could she not think it was the most beautiful face in the world?
It was her friend, who she knew cared about her. It was her commander, who at the very least respected her…maybe cared about her.
And she thought back since she’d met Matt. Since she’d met Kylo.
And it all made so much sense.
And he was so beautiful.
She took his hand, lifted it to study it. Scars on his palm, familiar and new. Healed and healing.
This man…this broken man, whom she knew and didn’t know, wanted to know, always wanted to know, know everything about him…
…he was broken. He was strong.
She kissed the scars on his palm, and when that was done, held his hand nestled against her cheek, trembling, tears loose and sliding between his fingers.
After seconds, minutes, hours, she didn’t know…he stirred. He moaned.
“Mmm…who…who’s there?”
She managed a smile through her tears and whispered:
“No one. No one’s here.”