Chapter Text
Kylo Ren was a mystery based solely on the fact that he was not a mystery.
You had seen more than your fair share of self-righteous toddlers throwing tantrums, and sure, this one had a crazy glowing death stick that could slice through metal panels, chairs, and most certainly your flesh, but still. Toddler. Not that you would ever say that. Because like most people, you enjoyed the all the little pleasures of life—pickle sandwiches, the wind in your hair, and the simple fact that your head was attached to your person—and insulting Kylo Ren would most certainly bring an end to all of the above.
But back to the mystery.
At Starkiller Base, everyone hummed and whispered about Kylo Ren. Well, perhaps not everyone, but your acquaintances certainly. And you as well.
People would murmur silently into their morning coffees about how the dark menace had torn apart Training Room A9, or how you really should avoid walking down such and such hallway until the maintenance teams had cleared away the rubble and live wires. But, destruction aside, the hushed whispers always seem to inquire ‘just who is he? And who does he think he is?’
You always scoffed and thought ‘well, that’s a ridiculous question. He’s Kylo Ren—the temperamental man-child with a bucket on his head.’ You thought you could sense a sprinkling of daddy issues topping off that hot mess (‘birds of a feather,’ and all that rubbish), but other than that, there really was no mystery to him.
And that, of course, was the reason you found him to be so mysterious.
Who didn’t have secrets? Certainly you did. As did all the captains and generals and every single stormtrooper that was wheeled into your infirmary. So what were his? Did it have something to do with the mask? Maybe he had bright green hair. Or maybe he’d been cut up so badly that he was ashamed to show his face. Or maybe he had pink hair. Either way, the mundaneness of your inquiries drove you up the wall.
Someone called your name and you looked up with a start.
“What is it?”
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but Khan is ready in his cryotube.”
Your brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?”
Your assistant flushed and shuffled to another page in his notes. “Ah. Sorry. KN-7768 is here for a checkup on that artificial foot.”
You cracked your neck and spun in your chair. “Now that I can handle. Bring him in.”
Your musings about Kylo Ren and his baffling lack of mystery could wait.
.
.
.
Or so you thought.
.
.
.
You weren’t sure exactly when it happened, or how. You were sitting in your favorite chair, chin propped up on your fist and reading over Phasma’s report on past injury versus performance in the field. Then, without precursor, the ground began to rumble and the floor beneath your feet cracked and opened like the maw of some great beast.
Luckily, the First Order didn’t just hire any old doctor off the street and had made sure you had plenty of battle experience under your belt before adding you to their roster. Shit happens when you’re trying to take over the galaxy, and they wanted all their employees to know the risks and be prepared. You had trained for years as soldier and a doctor. You knew the ins and outs of weapons and contusions alike. You were good at what you did and most anyone would acknowledge that with a bit of prompting.
Needless to say therefore, you had no problem stepping about a foot to the right to avoid falling into the black pit of doom and despair.
Alarms sounded overhead. Stormtroopers and medics alike swarmed the infirmary and you were hauled along in a hurry. Because the Starkiller Base was not only being blown up, but it seemed it was taking the rest of the planet with it.
For a moment you were confused. Not about the destruction of the place you’d called home for quite a few years, no, but because you just couldn’t figure out why anyone would send that many stormtroopers and medics after you—a lowly army doctor. A dime a dozen. You could pick up a battle tested surgeon on any old planet. You weren’t a favorite of Snoke’s, in fact, you doubted the supreme leader even knew who you were. Hux found you obnoxious and far too laid back. And Kylo Ren, well he didn’t care about anyone. So why in their right minds would anyone in a position of command bother saving you—
But then you were pushed into the small infirmary on the massive getaway craft and realized ah. That’s why.
Kylo Ren—or someone who you very much assumed was Kylo Ren—was sprawled across one of the operating tables, swarmed with nurses and medical assistants. His face was cut open and singed, like he’d been kissed by sharp flame. Blood pooled from stab wounds spearing his chest and left calf. The most shocking thing of all though may have been the fact that his abdomen was literally ripped open. You had to do a double take to make sure that, yep, that was a giant hole. Clear through his side. Yep.
You would have liked to say that instinct took over—that you rushed to the side of the attractive dying man and saved the day like the fantastic hero that you were. But instead you stared and blinked slowly. No pink hair.
General Hux moved to your side. You glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye.
“Sir.”
He crossed his arms behind his back, locking his hands neatly beneath his stiff jacket.
“Well, doctor.” He nodded to the bleeding and broken dark knight. “You’ll fix him, won’t you?” He sounded so disinterested. And just a tad bit threatening.
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Of course you will.”
And with that, you dove headfirst into the task of saving a man who was more black fabric than human, and who was littered with more holes than a party platter of Swiss cheese. Curiosity aside, you had the distinct feeling that if Kylo Ren died on your operating table, your own life would be snuffed out not long after. And that certainly helped spur you forward.
.
.
.
Eight hours, two rotations of assistants, and so many stitches and salve you’d lost track not twenty minutes into sewing him up, and Kylo Ren was out of the danger zone. He was most certainly banged up and you doubted he’d be doing anything productive for a while, but you’d pulled him out of the grave, and that had to count for something.
Two stormtroopers had come in a little less than halfway through, carting an unconscious Captain Phasma (apparently she’d been dumped into the trash compactor by some rebels). One of them had walked over to investigate the goings on at your operating table, only to promptly faint at the sight of you wrist deep in their superior’s innards.
Sure, Ren’s injuries were terrible, but you’d seen worse. Particularly when it came to holes in abdomens. One stormtrooper had come into your care with his stomach and lower intestines torn clean through. He’d stumbled into your infirmary and when you’d reached out to get him onto the table, a wad of half-digested cereal had fallen from his torn bowels and right onto your shoe. Now that had been traumatizing.
The unconscious stormtrooper had been dragged from the room and you’d returned to scraping fragments of bone and charred tissue from the wound so that you could prepare to start re-growing the cells.
Hux hovered throughout the entirety of the procedure. Somehow, it felt disrespectful. Mocking even. Like he thought that because he was looking down at the man on the table rather than splayed across it himself, that made him better. It was rubbing you the wrong way.
You finished wrapping the closed wound on his side and reached up to apply another layer of salve to the vicious red slash that crossed his face. You’d done what you could, but the cut was too deep, and whatever had done the job was too powerful, too unusual. There was no way you could have healed it completely. With all your efforts, the scar would fade to a thin, jagged, white line over time. But you liked to work without leaving a mark…
“I bet he’ll like it,” Hux commented. “He wanted to be Vader so badly, and now,” his lips curled into a slimy smirk, “I suppose he actually has a reason to dawn that ridiculous mask of his.”
Well. That was fucking rude.
He turned on you with a snarl. “What did you just say.”
“Uh…”
Luckily for you, Phasma chose that moment to come spluttering back into consciousness and you turned from the fuming ginger to check on your second patient.
.
.
.
Kylo Ren may have been a not so mysterious mystery, but you thought you knew enough about him that you could assure the rest of the medical staff that yes, the precautions were necessary.
Sure, strapping the head of the Knights of Ren down to a hospital bed may not earn you any brownie points, but right now he was your patient. And when he woke up, he would try to leave. And you certainly couldn’t have that. You’d worked so hard on the new tissue lining his side, and you would not let him ruin it during one of his gargantuan tantrums.
But there were more pressing matters at hand. Snoke (or more accurately, a hologram of Snoke) had demanded to speak with you.
The Supreme Leader of the First Order was curious about the fate of his manic pupil. Hux was a dick and Phasma was nursing a nasty concussion, so that left you. You reported to his chambers (did a hologram really need its own room? Seemed wasteful in your opinion) and you stood politely as his scarred face peered down at you, impassive.
“Kylo Ren will survive the night, then?”
“Yes, sir. And far into the future. Provided he’s not stabbed or something of that nature.” You hesitated. “Of course, I’ll do my best to fix him up again if that happens.” Another pause. “Not that it will happen. I just…” you trailed off and shut your mouth with a firm snap. You were digging a deep hole. Best to stop ASAP.
Snoke relaxed back, as if the real him (wherever he was) was making himself more comfortable atop a throne.
“I see. Very good.”
You had absolutely no idea what part of your ramblings he was referring to. You assumed the tidbit about Ren being well enough to not keel over and die over the course of the next few hours. “Yes, sir.”
Those pale blue eyes of his bore down at you—both eerily calm and intimidating.
“Kylo Ren is unstable,” Snoke said. “The mix of light and dark within him is so strong, so pure. The force within him is incorruptible. It makes him powerful. His temper however, does not.”
Your brow furrowed in confusion.
“He needs stability in his life,” he continued.
“Excuse me, sir. But he has you, doesn’t he? You are his mentor, aren’t you?”
“A teacher should provide support for his pupil, yes,” Snoke hummed, his voice a soft whisper, like wind playing through the leaves on a summer day. “But it is not the purpose of a master to coddle his student. The master is above it all—the master passes on his teachings, and often times the lessons that accompany that knowledge may be too difficult for his student to bear.” He tilted his head, looking thoughtful. “I cannot be the rock that Kylo needs, nor will I bother to attempt it.”
Something began to claw its way up your throat.
“I’m sorry, sir. But are you suggesting… that I…”
“He requires discipline,” Snoke cut in. “A firm hand to hold the reins when I cannot.” At this he leaned forward. “And there is something about you. I can’t quite put my finger on it, doctor.”
Panic. That’s what was slowly sinking its talons into your flesh as it shimmied its way up your esophagus.
Because, yes. Kylo Ren was fascininating. But he was also a tempermental man-child with a bucket on his head. And you liked your head in its place and your throat intact, thank you very much.
“You saved his life,” Snoke said. “That puts you in the best position to control it.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but I—I mean, I can’t—I—I’m a surgeon. Not a—a—” an intergalactic babysitter.
“Go check on your patient, doctor.”
“Sir, I—”
And then Snoke was gone.
.
.
.
When you got back to the infirmary you shouldn’t have been surprised to see two of your assistants shaking in the corner and an empty bed—restraints undone and sheets a tangled mess.
You ran a hand through your bedraggled hair. The mangled image of dozens upon dozens of torn stitches flashed through your mind. Bandages torn free before their time. New skin abused and ruined before it even had the chance to learn how to properly bruise.
Well. This was going well.
.
.
.
Shockingly enough, Kylo Ren returned to the infirmary not much later—and of his own accord no less. The part of his face not concealed in bandages was contorted in rage and pain. Not a good combination on anyone, let alone someone who could twist your mind in on itself or run you through with a lightsaber.
He stormed up to you and wasted no time getting right in your face.
Part of you was screaming in horror. The other, less sane and very exhausted part, was still mulling over the fact that he didn’t have the brilliant pink hair you’d been imagining for so long.
“The Supreme Leader said that you believe my wounds are still dangerous.”
Well. How kind of him.
You shrugged. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Especially if you want to maintain the use of your leg. Also,” you cast a pointed glare at his side, “that new abdomen of yours is new. As the title implies. And you’re going to murder it before it even has a chance to cozy up to all your other cells.”
His lips pulled apart in a snarl but you held your ground.
I am supposed to be a rock, you reminded yourself. A rock. A big, sturdy, rock. And he doesn’t have his lightsaber right now to cut open that rock. Be the rock.
“It will set back my training.”
“Do you want to train and die or take a bit of a break and not die.” Teensy bit of an exaggeration, sure. But hyperbole was your specialty.
His dark eyes narrowed further. “The Supreme Leader told me that you are to be my personal medic. To ensure that this,” he winced, “does not happen in the future.”
I can’t exactly stop your bitch ass from getting stabbed.
His face darkened and your brain supplied helpfully that you ought to be more careful, because remember self, he can probe your thoughts.
You smiled stiffly and took a cautionary step backwards.
“Well, sir. You weren’t supposed to wake up for—” you glanced at the clock on the wall, “—two days. However, if you get back into bed, I can give you your next dose of painkillers and antibiotics a bit early.”
There was that snarl again.
You tried again. “You need to rest. Resting will make it better. I promise. The best medicine other than the actual medicine.”
Like an angry cat who’d been yelled at to get off the counter, he slowly and grumpily slunk away. He settled himself less than gracefully onto the firm mattress with a hard wince (ha. You knew he was in pain. The faker) and you were so very tempted to tuck him in like the spoiled little brat he was—and there was that venomous glare again.
So instead you just hooked him back up to his fluids, flushed his IV, and injected a far too potent cocktail of Fentanyl and concentrated antihistamines into the slushing, clear fluid bags, hoping it would knock him out for at the very least a solid twelve hours.
You slumped into your chair with a sigh that seemed to shake all the way down to your bones.
You’d wanted to know more about him—to unravel why a man that ought to be so mysterious seemed to be anything but. You’d wanted to satiate your curiosity. You’d thought it would be so easy if you ever just had the chance to observe the leather clad wonder in his natural habitat.
And oh how you were regretting that.
.
.
.