“Brothers In The Making” Pt.3

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

I’m I the only freak who finds Old Man Hunter hot?

Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx

“Permission to Feel”

Bad Batch x Fem!Reader

The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.

No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.

You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.

You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.

But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.

And failing.

The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.

You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.

But you couldn’t stay in this room.

Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.

Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.

You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.

But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”

He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”

You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”

He was already opening his arms before you finished.

You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.

Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”

You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.

Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”

“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.

“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.

“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”

You blinked. “What?”

Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”

Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”

Your heart stuttered.

Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”

You looked at them. Really looked.

These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.

You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.

“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”

Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”

Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.

Wrecker never stopped holding you.

He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”

That simple.

You can just stay.

And so you did.

You stayed.

Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).

Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.

You drifted off like that.

Not in your quarters.

Not alone.

But safe, for once.

Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.

“Red Lines” pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader

The silence of your office was deceptive.

Outside the transparisteel windows, Coruscant glittered like a serpent coiled around its secrets—unblinking, beautiful, and always listening. Inside, the low buzz of your private holoterminal grew louder, more urgent.

You closed the thick file in front of you—another half-legal mining contract you’d need to publicly denounce and quietly reroute—and leaned forward. You keyed in your security clearance, and the image that appeared wasn’t what you expected.

Your senior planetary attaché flickered into view, pale-faced and breathing hard.

“Senator,” he said without preamble, “we have a situation. Prison Compound Nine—compromised. Four fugitives escaped.”

You frowned, blood going cold. “Which fugitives?”

“Level-Seven threats. Political dissidents. Former intelligence operatives. Rumor is… they’re already offworld. Possibly Coruscant-bound.”

You sat back slowly, every thought sharpening to a blade’s edge. “That information stays contained until I say otherwise. Send me all identicodes and criminal profiles now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The transmission ended. You stared at the terminal for a beat longer, then stood, pulling your cloak from the back of the chair. There was only one place this belonged: in the hands of Coruscant’s best-armed babysitters.

And if that just so happened to bring you face-to-face with a certain thick-headed, utterly blind red-armored commander?

All the better.

⸻

The Corrie Guard precinct near the Senate was buzzing with the quiet energy of military protocol. You were met outside the checkpoint by two familiar faces.

“Senator [L/N],” Sergeant Hound greeted you, visor dipping respectfully.

Beside him, Stone offered a nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here, ma’am. Something wrong?”

“Very,” you said crisply, handing over a sealed datapad. “Level-Seven fugitives from my home system. Recently escaped. Highly trained, extremely dangerous, and possibly on Coruscant as we speak.”

Hound’s brow furrowed behind the helmet. “That’s a hell of a situation.”

“They’re targeting something,” you said. “Or someone. My planet’s intelligence division flagged odd comm-traffic patterns aligning with a senator’s office hours—mine.”

Stone shifted, suddenly sharper. “So it’s personal.”

You nodded. “Possibly revenge. Or leverage. Either way, I’m not taking chances.”

As they scanned the datapad, footsteps echoed from the far hall—more measured, more commanding.

Fox.

You turned just in time to see him and Commander Thorn walking down the corridor, deep in conversation.

Thorn spotted you first, expression flickering with mild surprise. “Senator [L/N]. You’re out of your element.”

Fox glanced over—and immediately straightened. “Senator.”

Thorn raised a brow at the datapad in Stone’s hands. “Trouble?”

“Trouble likes to follow me,” you said smoothly. “This time it’s not my fault.”

Fox approached, glancing at the display. His eyes skimmed the alert, the images, the profiles—danger written in every line.

“Level-Sevens,” he said. “You should have come straight to me.”

You smiled, something sharp curling at the edges. “I did.”

He blinked. “You… did.”

You tilted your head. “I thought noticing things was your new skillset.”

Thorn let out a quiet chuckle behind you. Hound tried to look innocent. Stone was grinning outright.

Fox cleared his throat. “We’ll open an internal security file. Assign additional patrols near your office and residence.”

“Perfect,” you said. “Though I’d feel even safer with you around, Commander.”

His silence was almost impressive.

Thorn looked between the two of you, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. “Fox, you might want to run a few extra drills. Something tells me you’re going to be… distracted.”

“Commander Thorn,” Fox said, voice ice-cold. “Noted.”

You turned to Fox, voice lower now. “These fugitives are clever. They’ll adapt. You may need someone who knows how they think.”

“You?” he asked.

You gave him a look that could melt glass. “I’m not just a senator, Commander. I’m a survivor. And I don’t play fair.”

He held your gaze.

And again… said nothing.

You smiled. Of course he didn’t. The perfect soldier.

But one day? You’d crack that armor. Even if it killed you.

Fox’s jaw was set like stone behind his helmet. When he finally spoke, the words dropped with the weight of command.

“No, Senator,” he said flatly. “This is a Guard matter now. You’re not to involve yourself in the investigation further.”

The sharp, satisfied click of his words should’ve ended it. Should’ve sent you back to your office to stew in silence.

Instead, it made you smile.

“Mm,” you hummed, crossing your arms slowly. “I don’t recall asking permission, Commander.”

Stone glanced at Hound with barely concealed amusement. Thorn shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes dancing between the two of you with the air of someone watching a high-speed speeder crash.

Fox didn’t flinch. “Your involvement would compromise security and escalate risk. You’re a high-value target—”

“And that makes me an even higher priority to be looped in,” you cut in, voice silk over steel. “You want to contain risk? Then keep me informed.”

Fox’s silence bristled like a drawn blade.

You took a step closer, voice softening just enough to imply intimacy while still pressing hard against his control. “I understand your chain of command, Commander. But I wasn’t asking to be in the field.”

You leaned in just slightly, enough to force him to register the space between you.

“I’m telling you,” you murmured, “that the moment those fugitives are captured—or killed—I expect to be notified. Immediately. Do you understand me?”

There was a subtle twitch in his stance—barely noticeable to anyone else, but you caught it.

He was used to command. Not negotiation.

Not you.

Thorn let out a long, slow whistle. “Well, kark. Should we leave you two alone, or…?”

Fox didn’t move a muscle. “Understood,” he said eventually. “You’ll be notified.”

You offered him a slow, almost sultry smile. “Good. I knew you could be reasonable.”

Then you turned on your heel, cloak swirling, brushing his vambrace with just the whisper of contact.

“Keep your comms open, Commander,” you called over your shoulder. “You might miss me.”

Fox stared after you, helmet tucked under one arm, face unreadable. Thorn stepped in beside him, arms crossed loosely.

“She’s a wildfire,” Thorn said, his voice low. “And you, vod… you’re the dry brush.”

Fox let out a breath that was neither amused nor frustrated—just heavy.

“She’s dangerous,” he muttered.

“Which part?” Thorn asked, grinning. “The intel, the fugitives, or the way she looks at you like she’s already won?”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because honestly?

He wasn’t sure.

⸻

The operations room was lit only by a few soft holoscreens, each projecting sectors of Coruscant’s underlevels and the networked security grid. The city never slept, and neither did the Guard—not with a potential Level-Seven threat loose.

Fox stood at the main display table, eyes scanning red-highlighted routes and names. His jaw worked in quiet rhythm, processing, calculating, assigning.

Thorn leaned against the far wall, helmet off, arms crossed, watching him.

“Okay,” Thorn said eventually, “let’s talk about it.”

Fox didn’t look up. “About what?”

“About the fact that two senators—two, Fox—keep finding excuses to orbit around you like you’re the damn sun.”

Fox didn’t pause in his typing. “They’re politicians. They orbit whoever’s most useful.”

Thorn snorted. “That what you think this is? Strategic kissing up?”

Fox nodded once. “Senator [L/N] plays the long game. She pushes limits, stirs chaos, then waits to see who blinks. Getting in good with the Guard gives her a protective buffer. She knows how valuable we are in a city like this.”

“And Chuchi?”

Fox hesitated. Just a second.

“She’s more direct. But she’s still a senator. Don’t let the soft voice fool you—she’s calculating too. They all are.”

Thorn pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You really think they’re both suddenly invested in you because they want to cash in political favors?”

Fox gave him a look. “We’re enforcers, Thorn. Leverage. If a senator ends up needing a security report buried or a background skipped on a staffer, who do they think will make that disappear quietly?”

“Right,” Thorn said slowly. “Because Riyo Chuchi is famous for corruption.”

Fox didn’t reply.

“And Senator [L/N] practically breathes ethics, right?” Thorn added, deadpan.

Fox allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth—almost a smirk, if you squinted hard enough.

“She breathes something,” he said under his breath.

Thorn barked a laugh. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”

Fox turned back to the holo. “Neither of them is interested in me, Thorn. They’re playing a game. One loud, one quiet. Same goal.”

“And what goal is that?” Thorn pressed, watching him closely.

Fox tapped a point on the map. “Control.”

“Funny,” Thorn said. “From where I’m standing, it’s not them trying to control you… It’s you trying to control the story you tell yourself.”

Fox didn’t answer.

Because what could he say?

That you, with your blade-sharp grin and eyes like traps, weren’t manipulating him—that you were something else entirely? That Chuchi, kind and composed, looked at him like she meant it?

No. That wasn’t part of the file.

So instead, he changed the subject.

“Assign units to levels 1315 through 1320. Full perimeter sweep. If these fugitives surface, I want them surrounded before they can draw breath.”

Thorn sighed, shaking his head as he pulled his helmet back on. “You’re a kriffing idiot, Fox.”

Fox didn’t respond. Not to that.

He had work to do.

And feelings?

Those were someone else’s mission.

⸻

The Guard’s central command was a hive of movement—troopers reporting in from the lower levels, holoscreens flickering with faces flagged for surveillance, and the quiet undercurrent of discipline humming through every corridor.

Chuchi’s arrival was quiet. Intentional. No Senate aides, no parade of protocol. Just a simple dark-blue cloak, datapad in hand, and a cup of steaming caf that she carried carefully through the armored sea of troopers.

She earned a few surprised glances.

Not many senators walked into the Guard’s domain alone.

But Chuchi wasn’t just any senator.

She spotted Fox just outside the debriefing chamber, helmet tucked under his arm, deep in conversation with Sergeant Boomer. His expression was all sharp lines and worn intensity—he hadn’t slept, that much was obvious.

“Commander Fox,” she said gently.

He turned, startled by her presence. “Senator Chuchi.”

“I heard about the alert,” she said, extending the cup toward him. “I thought you might need this more than I do.”

Fox blinked, hesitated… then accepted the caf with a nod. “Appreciated.”

Chuchi gave a soft smile. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

He didn’t respond to that. Instead, he took a measured sip—cautious, as if caf were unfamiliar ground.

“I imagine the search has consumed your every waking moment,” she said gently.

“Level-Sevens don’t give us much room to breathe,” he admitted. “We’re covering three sectors simultaneously.”

She nodded. “If there’s anything I can do to assist…”

Fox shook his head. “This is Guard jurisdiction. We’ll handle it.”

Chuchi’s smile didn’t falter. “I don’t doubt you will. But sometimes… support comes in quieter forms.”

She didn’t press further. Instead, she stepped closer—just enough to close the conversational space, not the physical one. Her voice lowered.

“You’ve never seemed the type who allows himself to be supported, Commander.”

Fox looked at her, eyebrows just slightly drawn. “I wasn’t trained for that.”

“No,” she said softly. “You were trained to protect others. Not to be seen. Not to be known.”

He said nothing.

So she went on.

“You’ve stood by the Chancellor more times than I can count. Protected the Senate through more crises than half its members realize. And yet… you’re always in the background.”

Fox shifted slightly, as if the weight of her gaze was more difficult to carry than his armor.

“I just wanted you to know,” Chuchi said quietly, “that I see you. As more than just the red and white armor. As more than a commander.”

His grip on the caf cup tightened.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, catching the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “I know it’s not easy to believe someone might care… without wanting something in return.”

Fox’s voice was quiet, careful. “You’re a senator.”

“I am,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of compassion.”

Silence stretched between them.

“I’ll… see to the patrol reports,” he said after a beat, taking a step back.

“Of course,” Chuchi said with a graceful nod. “Thank you for the work you do, Commander.”

She didn’t watch him walk away. She didn’t need to.

The caf cup still steamed in his hand.

And that was enough—for now.

⸻

The light in your office was dim, filtered through Coruscant’s constant twilight haze. You sat at your desk, datapad in hand, appearing the perfect picture of a diligent senator.

But your posture was too still. Too deliberate.

Because you could feel them.

The air had shifted—too quiet. The usual hum of outer security was gone. Either bypassed or silenced.

You didn’t look up. Instead, you keyed a silent alert under your desk—one flick of your finger against the embedded panel, and the Guard’s emergency line was pinged. No lights. No sound. Just data.

Then you continued working. Quiet. Calm. Like prey that hadn’t realized the snare was already closing.

“I know you’re here,” you said aloud, tapping your stylus against the desk. “You may as well stop playing ghost.”

No answer.

“Unless you’re scared,” you added, voice cool and measured. “I get it. I’d be terrified of me too.”

Silence again.

Then—movement.

From the shadowed arch near the bookshelves, two figures stepped into view. Dark clothing, military-grade sidearms. Faces you recognized from the prison files: former intelligence officers, turned insurgents.

“Senator [L/N],” the first said, voice low and amused. “You’ve grown sharper since your time at home.”

“You’ve grown sloppier,” you replied, still seated. “Three seconds late on your entrance. I almost got bored.”

The second man sneered. “You always did love the sound of your own voice.”

“And you always hated being outwitted. Funny how little’s changed.”

The leader raised his blaster, leveling it at your chest. “We didn’t come to talk.”

“No,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “You came to threaten. To make a statement. Isn’t that what you always wanted? Your glorious revolution of one?”

He stepped closer. “We’ll leave a message they won’t ignore.”

“I don’t think you realize,” you said, voice velvet and steel, “that this isn’t my first time with a gun pointed at me.”

“We’re not politicians, [L/N]. We’re executioners.”

You smiled.

“Cute.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, you slid your hand to the underside of your desk, thumb brushing against the pressure lock.

The drawer snapped open.

Before they could react, your concealed blaster was up and firing.

The shot hit the second insurgent square in the chest—burned through his armor and dropped him cold. The first shouted and dove for cover, return fire slicing across your desk, sparks flying.

You ducked low, rolled sideways, fired again. Missed.

“Should’ve aimed higher,” he snarled.

“Should’ve stayed dead,” you shot back.

The blast doors behind you hissed open with a thunderous echo.

Red armor flooded in—Guard troopers, weapons drawn.

Fox was at the lead, eyes sharp, voice a command. “Stand down! Drop your weapon!”

The insurgent froze, wild-eyed.

“Now!” Stone barked.

He hesitated… then dropped the blaster with a clatter and raised his hands.

Two troopers rushed him, slamming him to the ground and cuffing him with swift, brutal efficiency.

You stood slowly, brushing dust and ash from your robes. Your desk was scorched, half your datapads destroyed—but your eyes glittered like victory.

Fox approached, surveying the wreckage. “You’re injured?”

“Only my decor,” you said, voice breezy. “Though I wouldn’t mind a stiff drink.”

He stared at you. “You could’ve been killed.”

“I was bait,” you said coolly. “And it worked.”

His jaw clenched. “That was reckless.”

“That was necessary.”

“You should’ve let us handle it.”

“I did,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Eventually.”

He said nothing, just studied you with that unreadable expression of his.

But this time… something shifted.

Because now he’d seen you in action.

Not just as a mouthpiece in the Senate—but as someone who could kill, survive, and smile while doing it.

And maybe—just maybe—that stuck with him.

Even if he couldn’t admit it yet.

⸻

Your office still bore the scars of the assault—walls patched hastily, scorch marks half-scrubbed from the floor, the faint odor of blaster fire clinging to the air like the memory of a scream.

You sat behind a temporary desk, legs crossed, reviewing a datachip containing the criminal record of the man who now sat in Guard custody—hands shackled, rights revoked, dignity already gone.

The knock came soft, followed by the hiss of the door.

Senator Chuchi stepped in first, flanked by Bail Organa, Mon Mothma, and Padmé Amidala. Their expressions were taut, somewhere between concern and condemnation.

You didn’t bother standing. You simply looked up, calm as ever.

“We came as soon as we heard,” Chuchi said. “Are you—?”

“Fine,” you interrupted, voice clipped and dry. “Some scorch marks. Ruined upholstery. One corpse. One live capture.”

Padmé’s eyes widened. “You killed one of them yourself?”

“With a desk blaster,” you said. “Excellent reaction time, if I do say so myself.”

Bail stepped forward. “And the surviving fugitive? What’s the process now?”

You set down the datapad and met his gaze evenly. “Extradition. He’ll be transported back to my homeworld within the next standard cycle.”

Chuchi blinked. “That quickly?”

“Expedited process,” you said smoothly. “Emergency clause. Due to the direct assassination attempt.”

Mon Mothma’s voice tightened. “And what will happen once he’s returned?”

You leaned back in your chair, folding your hands. “He’ll be tried for war crimes. The verdict won’t take long. We’ve got extensive documentation.”

“And the sentence?” Bail asked, already bracing.

“Execution,” you said, flat and final. “Public, of course. We’ve already begun preparations.”

Silence.

Padmé’s face paled. “You can’t be serious.”

You smiled thinly. “Deadly.”

“That’s barbaric,” Mon snapped. “He surrendered. He’s a prisoner now.”

“He’s a monster,” you replied. “One who orchestrated mass executions, bombed medical shelters, and personally ordered the deaths of over four hundred civilians on my world. Surrender doesn’t bleach his sins.”

Chuchi stepped forward. “There must be a process—”

“There is,” you cut in. “He’ll be tried under our planetary law, as is our right under interplanetary accords. And I’ll be overseeing the proceedings personally.”

“You’re making a spectacle out of this,” Bail said, disgusted.

“No,” you said calmly. “I’m making a warning.”

“To who?” Padmé demanded. “Everyone who disagrees with you?”

“To everyone who thinks I’ll hesitate,” you said. “Who thinks power means we have to play nice while murderers laugh in our faces.”

Mon’s eyes narrowed. “And what will the people think of a senator who sanctions public execution?”

You stood, slowly, the heat in your gaze simmering just beneath the surface. “They’ll think I finally gave them justice. And if they want more? I’ll build the stage myself.”

A stunned silence followed.

No one knew what to say.

You picked up the extradition order and signed it with a practiced flick of your stylus.

“I’d offer caf,” you said as you slipped it into a courier tube, “but I’ve got a war criminal to ship and an execution schedule to finalize.”

You walked out without waiting for permission—cloak swaying, boots clicking like a countdown.

Behind you, the moral senators were left standing in the ash of their expectations.

And Chuchi?

She watched you leave, lips parted in silent disbelief.

Not because you’d shocked her.

But because she couldn’t decide if she wanted to save you—

—or if she just wanted to know what it felt like to burn like you did.

⸻

The Guard’s HQ buzzed with low-level activity, but Fox’s office was calm—silent save for the faint hum of surveillance holos and the occasional clipped murmur from the comms console.

He stood by the window when you arrived, arms folded behind his back, posture locked in that familiar brace of discipline. He didn’t turn when the door hissed open.

But he didn’t need to.

“Senator,” he said without looking.

“Commander.”

You crossed the threshold slowly, letting the door seal behind you with a soft hiss. No grand entrance. No entourage. Just you.

And the news that was already spreading through the Senate like wildfire.

He finally turned.

Expression unreadable. Just that damn mask of duty, soldered so tight it nearly passed for indifference. But his eyes—those betrayed a flicker of something else. Not judgment. Not pity.

Something harder to name.

“So it’s true,” he said quietly.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’d know better than most. Your troopers ran the background check. You processed the transfer yourself.”

He gave a slight nod. “Doesn’t mean I expected the… outcome.”

“You mean the execution.”

He hesitated. “It’s not my place to comment.”

“Isn’t it?” You stepped closer, boots soft against the polished floor. “You’re in charge of security for the most powerful government body in the Republic. You keep the peace. You enforce the law. Surely you have thoughts when one of us decides to sharpen justice into something a little more… terminal.”

Fox met your gaze steadily. “I’ve seen worse done for less.”

That caught you off guard—not because of what he said, but because of how simply he said it. No hesitation. No theatrics.

Just fact.

You tilted your head. “So you don’t disapprove?”

He looked down briefly, jaw tense. “It’s not about approval. I can’t blame you for wanting blood. Not after what he did.” A pause. “But I was bred for protocol. Not for vengeance.”

You gave a wry smile. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t.”

Fox looked at you again, searching—though for what, you couldn’t say.

He finally spoke, voice lower now. “You could’ve left it to a tribunal.”

“I could’ve,” you admitted. “But tribunals don’t speak to grieving families. They don’t look children in the eye and say, ‘We remember what they did to you.’” You stepped in just a little closer. “But a public execution? That does.”

Fox didn’t flinch.

But he didn’t move, either.

A long silence passed between you, taut and electric.

Then you reached for your datapad, keyed something in, and glanced up again.

“I’ll be leaving within the cycle,” you said. “Finalizing everything on my end.”

His voice was quieter now. “And after?”

You smiled. Not cruel, not soft—just sharp.

“I’ll be seeing you in a week.”

He didn’t respond.

You turned to leave.

But just before the door opened, he spoke.

“Senator.”

You glanced back.

“I don’t know if what you’re doing is justice,” he said. “But I know you’re not doing it out of weakness.”

You looked at him for a beat longer.

Then you nodded, just once.

“I never do.”

And then you left, cloak trailing behind like a shadow that never needed the light.

⸻

The ship hummed with the steady lull of hyperspace, stars streaking into lines beyond the viewports. It was the kind of quiet most would call peaceful.

But peace was a foreign language aboard this vessel.

You sat in the command lounge, sipping strong liquor from a crystal glass, the kind produced exclusively by your planet’s border provinces. It tasted like burning and bitter roots.

Fitting.

The two Jedi seated across from you couldn’t have been more different, though both wore concern like armor.

Kenobi was upright and composed, legs crossed, his fingers laced in his lap. Anakin sprawled, arms draped over the chair back, a shadow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You still have time to change your mind,” Kenobi said gently.

You didn’t bother looking up. “No. I don’t.”

“It’s not too late for a trial. A tribunal through the Republic, something with transparency.”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin cut in, voice bored, “you know that wouldn’t stick. Half those tribunals are performative at best. He’d be out in five years under some technicality.”

Kenobi shot him a look. “And that justifies state-sanctioned public killing?”

“I’m not justifying it,” Anakin said. “I’m just saying… I get it.”

You finally looked up, eyes cool. “I don’t need either of you to justify it. This isn’t your decision. You’re here as escorts, not advisors.”

“That may be,” Kenobi said, tone frustratingly calm, “but we’re Jedi. It’s our duty to speak when we see paths leading to darkness.”

You leaned back in your chair, holding his gaze. “My planet was born in darkness. Raised in blood and ruin. Still today, it’s ruled by warlords and syndicates that think justice is something bought with blade and coin.”

Kenobi frowned. “But you’re not them.”

You tilted your head. “A public execution is nothing compared to the horrors most of my people have endured. At least this death comes with a verdict.”

Anakin was watching you now, intrigued, leaning forward slightly.

Kenobi looked pained. “You can’t build peace through fear.”

You smiled, slow and cold. “You cannot sell dreams to someone who has walked through nightmares.”

That silenced them both for a beat.

The hum of the engines filled the space. Then, softer, you added:

“When you’re not fed love from a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.”

Kenobi flinched. Not physically—but in that subtle tightening of his jaw, that flicker behind his eyes.

You didn’t enjoy it.

But you didn’t shy away from it either.

“You want to talk of ideals,” you continued, voice quiet but sharp, “but ideals don’t stop warlords. They don’t scare insurgents. And they certainly don’t bring back the families that thing murdered in my name.”

Anakin nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.

“I’m not here to make you comfortable,” you finished. “I’m here to make a point.”

Kenobi opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it.

He knew he wouldn’t change your mind.

And deep down, a part of him feared you might be right.

“You’re confusing retribution for justice,” Obi-Wan said, tone sharp but calm, like a man trying to hold onto the edge of a cliff while the rocks crumbled beneath him.

You didn’t rise to the bait.

Anakin did.

“She’s doing what the Republic won’t,” he snapped. “What it can’t.”

Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “She’s about to put a man to death in front of a crowd.”

“He slaughtered civilians, Obi-Wan. Entire villages. She’s not executing a man—she’s putting down a rabid dog.”

“That’s not our place.”

“It’s not yours,” Anakin said darkly, “but don’t presume to speak for everyone.”

You leaned forward, voice low and deliberate. “I’m not doing this because I want to. I’m doing it because someone has to.”

Kenobi looked at you with something dangerously close to pity.

“Justice,” he said, “shouldn’t come from hatred.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And yet here we are—riding toward it in a Republic ship, escorted by Jedi who can’t agree on what it even means.”

But before he could reply the red flash of alarms cut through the room like a blade.

“Security breach,” a mechanical voice droned. “Cell block override. Prisoner containment compromised.”

You were already moving.

The Jedi rose in sync beside you, cloaks whipping as they turned down the corridor.

“Stay behind us,” Kenobi ordered.

You didn’t.

The three of you reached the lower deck fast, guards already running in the opposite direction, blasters raised. “He’s loose!” one yelled. “Deck 3, sector C—he’s going for the main hall!”

Your blood ran cold.

That was your route.

You pivoted, cloak flaring behind you as you ran the opposite way—Anakin and Obi-Wan close behind. You passed scorch marks. Broken panels. A dead guard slumped by the bulkhead, throat slashed with something jagged.

You slowed.

And then you saw him.

He stood at the end of the corridor, blaster in one hand, stolen vibroblade in the other. His face was twisted in fury, blood already drying across his temple.

“Senator,” he sneered. “Thought I’d come say goodbye.”

He fired.

You dove.

Searing pain lanced your shoulder as the bolt grazed you—burning, but not fatal. You hit the ground, rolled behind a crate.

Obi-Wan moved first, saber igniting in a clean hum of blue.

“Don’t do this,” he warned.

The prisoner laughed. “You think I’m afraid of death?”

“No,” Anakin said, stepping forward, saber hissing to life—brighter, more furious. “But you should be afraid of me.”

And then the prisoner lunged.

The hallway became chaos—blaster fire, blade against saber, the scream of metal and the hiss of near-misses. You pressed your hand to your wound, blood seeping through your fingers, watching through a haze of pain and fury.

Kenobi parried and dodged, trying to disarm.

Anakin didn’t bother.

His strikes were violent. Purposeful. He fought like a man unbothered by consequence.

A blur—metal clashing, sparks flying.

Anakin drove his saber through the prisoner’s chest.

The man gasped.

Stiffened.

And crumpled to the floor, smoke rising from the wound, eyes staring at nothing.

Silence fell.

You breathed hard, trying to steady your vision.

Kenobi stepped back, saber slowly disengaging, expression grim.

Anakin stood over the body, chest rising and falling.

He looked back at you—not regretful.

Just… resolved.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, clutching your shoulder. “I will be.”

Obi-Wan crouched beside the corpse, checking for a pulse he already knew wasn’t there. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” you said coldly, “but it saves me the paperwork.”

Anakin gave the ghost of a grin.

Kenobi didn’t.

He looked up at you with haunted eyes, and for the first time in hours—maybe ever—he had nothing to say.

Not because he agreed.

But because he finally understood:

Some people were born into dreams.

You were forged in nightmares.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Delta Squad Material List🧡❤️💚💛

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

Boss

- x reader “directive breach”❤️

- x Reader “Shadows of Theed”❤️

- x Reader “Duty Calls, Desire Waits”❤️

Sev

- x Reader “still just a rat in a cage”❤️

- x Reader “Storm and Starlight”❤️

- x Reader “Vertical Evac”❤️

Scorch

- x reader “Pull the Trigger”❤️

- “Where’s your head at” 🏡/❤️

Fixer

- x Reader “Caf Break” ❤️

Overall Material List

“Crossfire” pt.6

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The night air was still, too quiet for Coruscant. As if the city itself held its breath. The reader sat on the stone edge of a koi pond in the Jedi Temple gardens, picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve.

She hadn’t come here to pray. Or meditate. She came because she couldn’t breathe in her apartment anymore.

Kit Fisto approached silently, boots barely making a sound against the stones. She didn’t flinch when he spoke.

“You found the quietest corner of the Temple.”

“I didn’t think Jedi gardens were known for wild parties.”

He chuckled, easing down beside her, his presence—warm, calm, steady. It was infuriating how grounded he always was.

“You look better than this morning,” he said.

“I look like someone who kissed two men, woke up next to a Jedi Master, and has no idea what the hell she’s doing with her life.”

Kit’s smile widened. “I wasn’t going to say it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for getting me home.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks.”

They sat in silence, the pond rippling as a fish darted beneath the surface.

She sighed. “Do I seem like a monster to you?”

“No.”

“Even after everything?”

“I think you’ve been carrying too many secrets for too long. That doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you tired.”

She looked at him. “Do you tell that to all the girls who stumble into your arms drunk off their head?”

“No,” he said. “Only the ones who cry about clone commanders in their sleep.”

Her throat tightened. “Of course I did.”

“You said you love them both.”

She dropped her head into her hands. “Stars, I’m a mess.”

“That’s not news.”

They both laughed, but it faded quickly.

Kit’s voice turned more serious. “You trust the Chancellor. But you fear him.”

“I do,” she whispered. “More than anything.”

Before Kit could respond, another voice echoed softly from behind.

“You’re not the only one.”

She turned sharply to see Mace Windu standing a few steps away, arms crossed, his gaze steady but not unkind.

“Didn’t realize this was going to be a group therapy session,” she muttered.

Windu stepped forward. “Kit told me what you said last night. About your fear. Your confusion. Your… feelings for the clones.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“I’m not here to scold you,” Windu said. “But I need to understand. Why do you keep aligning yourself with the Chancellor if you don’t trust him?”

“Because I don’t know what happens if I don’t,” she admitted. “He knows everything about me. He saved me once—or at least made me think he did. I’ve done things for him I can’t take back. And I’m scared if I stop playing the part, he’ll destroy me.”

Kit’s hand rested gently on her back. Windu’s expression softened—not pity, but something close.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Windu said. “We may not know what you are to him, but you’re not just his anymore. You’re part of something else now. The clones trust you. Some of the Jedi trust you. Don’t waste that.”

She met his eyes. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I’ve been.”

“Then start small,” Kit said. “Be honest.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Most truths are.”

Windu gave a slight nod, then turned to leave.

Before he did, he added, “You’ve still got a choice. Don’t wait until it’s taken from you.”

She sat there for a while after he left, Kit still beside her.

“Truth hurts,” she murmured.

Kit gave a small smile. “So does love.”

⸻

She didn’t take the main lift. Didn’t want to run into anyone. After her talk with Kit and Windu, she was raw—peeling open layers she’d kept tightly shut for years. Now, every footstep echoed like a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

She was halfway through the lower halls when a voice pulled her to a stop.

“You always run off when things get real?”

She froze.

Rex.

He stepped out of the shadows near the archway, arms crossed, helmet in hand, dressed down in fatigues. No armor. No rank. Just him. And that was the problem.

“I wasn’t running,” she said quietly.

“You never are,” he replied. “You disappear. You lie. You kiss me, then you kiss Cody, then you run again and act like none of it ever happened.”

She turned toward him, lips parted in protest—but he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care about what happened at 79’s,” he said. “Not like that. I care that I don’t know where I stand with you. And I don’t think you know either.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No. What’s not fair is you looking at me like you want to stay, then leaving before I can ask you to.”

She looked away. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know,” Rex said, stepping closer. “But you’ve got it. All of it. You have me. And Cody. And the damn Jedi Council watching your every move. And that kid you saved, even if he’s gone now. You’ve got hearts in your hands, and you’re squeezing them like you don’t realize they’re breakable.”

She flinched.

“You don’t get to keep pushing us away and pulling us close when it suits you,” he added, softer this time. “Pick something. Anyone. Or don’t. Just stop pretending it doesn’t mean something.”

The silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.

“I’m trying,” she finally whispered. “I’m not used to being wanted. Not like this. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Rex stepped closer. Close enough she could feel the heat from him, the frustration in the way he held his jaw so tight.

“Start by not lying,” he said. “To me. To Cody. To yourself.”

She met his eyes. “If I tell you I’m scared of what happens if I choose one of you…?”

“I’d say you’re human.”

“What if I choose wrong?”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you already know who it is,” he said, and for once, he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t push. Just looked at her like he was waiting for her to catch up.

She blinked, her mouth opening to speak—but footsteps echoed behind them.

Cody.

He stepped into the corridor, freezing at the sight of them. His eyes flicked between them, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Rex didn’t move.

Neither did she.

“You two done?” Cody asked coolly.

“Not even close,” Rex said.

Cody’s gaze locked with hers. “Then maybe it’s time I had a turn.”

The hallway felt too small for the weight in the air.

She looked between them—Rex, steady and wounded, and Cody, cold and unreadable, his arms crossed like a shield.

Cody broke the silence first.

“So,” he said, voice low. “What’s your excuse this time?”

“Cody—” she started.

“No, really. I want to know. You ran off, again. Lied to the Jedi Council. Lied to us. And you show back up at 79’s like nothing happened.” His tone was calm, but there was something brittle underneath. “So what is it this time?”

She exhaled, stepping forward. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to protect that kid. And if I told anyone—even you—it would’ve put him in more danger.”

“You think I wouldn’t have protected him?” Cody asked, hurt flashing behind his eyes. “You think we wouldn’t have helped you?”

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“You didn’t trust us.”

“I didn’t trust anyone.”

That landed heavier than she expected.

Rex shifted, jaw clenched. “She didn’t even answer my comms, Cody. Not once.”

“I know.”

The silence swelled again—until she took a step closer to both of them.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small, but real. Fragile, like they might shatter if she tried to backtrack.

Cody’s posture eased, just slightly. “We’re not looking for perfect,” he said quietly. “We’re just tired of being temporary.”

Her heart cracked open—again.

And then—

“Well isn’t this cozy.”

Quinlan Vos strolled around the corner like he was walking into a lounge instead of an emotional standoff.

“Oh great,” Cody muttered under his breath.

Right behind Quinlan came Kenobi, hands folded in front of him like he hadn’t just walked in on the messiest love triangle in the Temple.

“I sensed tension,” Kenobi said lightly. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be this personal.”

“Obi-Wan,” she said with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This really isn’t your kind of conversation.”

“And yet here I am,” he replied smoothly.

Quinlan leaned against the wall, eyes dancing with mischief. “So who’s it gonna be? Helmet One or Helmet Two?”

Rex looked like he was about to start throwing punches.

Cody sighed. “I will actually kill you, Vos.”

Vos raised his hands. “Hey, no need for violence. Unless it’s a duel for affection. In which case, I’ve got credits on the shiny one.”

“I swear to the stars—” she started.

Kenobi held up a hand, stepping between them. “Enough. We’re not here for… whatever this is. The Council requested an update on the three of you. We came to ensure you’re not tearing each other apart.”

Quinlan smirked. “Looks like she’s doing the emotional tearing, Obi.”

“Quinlan.”

“Alright, alright,” Vos said, grinning as he backed away. “But if someone gets stabbed over this? I better be invited.”

“Out,” she said, pointing. “Both of you.”

Kenobi gave a soft chuckle and turned to leave, but not before glancing over his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, tone more serious now, “sometimes the hardest thing isn’t choosing between two people—it’s choosing yourself. Just don’t take too long. Wars don’t wait for hearts to decide.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, dragging Quinlan along with him like an annoying older brother babysitting a younger one hopped up on spice.

The hallway fell quiet again.

Cody looked at her.

Rex didn’t move.

She let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know how to choose.”

“You don’t have to right now,” Cody said, stepping closer. “But stop pretending we don’t matter to you.”

“You do,” she whispered. “You both do.”

Rex finally spoke. “Then stop running.”

⸻

The air in her apartment was too still.

It felt wrong, being somewhere safe. Somewhere silent. Somewhere without the constant hum of danger or the weight of another lie slung over her shoulders like armor.

She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the lights dimmed.

A glass of something strong sat untouched on the nearby table.

Her thoughts weren’t on Rex. Or Cody. Not really. Not even on the awkward, lingering heat of Kit Fisto’s presence that still clung to the corners of her memory like steam on glass.

They kept drifting—to the kid.

To the boy with the too-serious eyes and the hands that fidgeted when he thought she wasn’t looking. Who had followed her across half the galaxy, trusting her with a kind of blind faith she didn’t think she deserved.

To the one she couldn’t kill.

To the one she’d almost raised.

She could still hear his voice, the way he’d called her “boss” like it was a title and a joke all in one. The way he looked when they’d watched the suns set over Kashyyyk, his feet dangling off a root bridge too high for a child to be comfortable on.

“Why do people kill people like me?” he’d asked once.

She didn’t answer then.

She didn’t have an answer now.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of every choice she’d made—every body she’d stepped over, every path she’d walked blindly, every whispered promise to herself that she could control this, steer it, fix it.

And now the boy was back in Republic custody.

Safer, maybe.

But she didn’t believe that—not really.

Palpatine had plans again. She could feel it. The shadows were curling inward, and she knew enough to know his approval was just another kind of leash.

Maybe Windu was right to be wary.

Maybe Kit was a fool for softening.

Maybe she’d always been a weapon. Just one that had gone a little bit rogue.

She stood up, slowly. Restless.

The floor was cold under her feet.

She wandered to the window. Coruscant glowed like a promise she never believed in.

And still… her hand went to her chest, fingers brushing the chain she wore. The one the boy had made her. Twisted wire and beads and a piece of scrap metal etched with a crude smiley face.

He’d given it to her after their first week on the farm.

“For luck,” he’d said.

She should have thrown it away. Burned it.

But she never did.

And as the lights of the city blinked in rhythm with her quiet regret, she found herself whispering into the night.

“I hope they’re being kind to you, kid.”

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him… or to the ghosts that never stopped following her.

⸻

The transmission came through at dawn. She hadn’t slept.

Palpatine’s voice was calm, syrupy sweet as always. “There’s a matter requiring your unique talents,” he said. “You’ll rendezvous with General Skywalker and his battalion. Details will follow.”

No time to think. No time to refuse.

So she didn’t.

⸻

The hangar was already buzzing when she arrived, helmet under her arm, armor pieced together hastily, mismatched from past missions. The 501st was preparing for deployment, their blue-striped armor shining like blades in the rising sun.

She caught Rex’s gaze across the room. He looked tired. He always did lately.

Anakin stood with a datapad, barking orders. Ahsoka stood near him, arms crossed, lekku twitching with unease the moment the reader approached.

“You’re late,” Skywalker said without looking up.

“I’m here,” she replied coolly.

“Then suit up and get ready. We leave in ten.”

She moved to prep her gear, but Ahsoka intercepted her with a tone too casual to be friendly. “Still working for the Chancellor, huh?”

The reader didn’t answer, just gave her a sideways glance and kept walking.

“I mean,” Ahsoka continued, following, “after everything that’s happened—you being gone, the Jedi Council questioning your motives, Palpatine conveniently keeping you around while trusting no one else. Doesn’t any of that seem off to you?”

The reader paused, slowly turning toward her. Her voice was quiet, but heavy. “You think I don’t ask myself the same questions?”

“Then maybe it’s time you stop pretending you’re above all of this,” Ahsoka snapped. “You play all sides. You lie. You vanish. And now you’re back like nothing happened.”

The reader took a step forward, gaze locked on the younger woman. “You think I want this? You think this is a game to me? You were raised in this war. Trained for it. You have people who believe in you, a name that means something. I was bought. I was used. You want to give me a reality check, kid? I live in it.”

Ahsoka blinked, momentarily stunned.

“You’re lucky,” the reader added. “You still think there’s a clean side to stand on.”

With that, she brushed past Ahsoka and made her way toward the LAAT gunship.

Rex was already inside, waiting.

She sat across from him, eyes closed, palms resting on her knees as if trying to keep her heart from falling out of her chest.

“You alright?” he asked after a while.

“No,” she said honestly.

He nodded like that answer made perfect sense. Like he wasn’t alright either.

The gunship lifted. The world blurred outside.

Another mission. Another role to play.

But this time, the pawn wasn’t so willing. And she was starting to learn how to bite.

⸻

The LAAT rocked hard as it breached atmosphere, the roar of wind and engines loud enough to drown out thoughts, fears—names she couldn’t stop saying in her head. Cody. Rex. The kid.

But beside her, General Skywalker sat unfazed, legs spread, arms braced loosely on his knees, like he was born for turbulence. He glanced at her mid-bounce and smirked.

“Bet you missed this,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the rumble.

She scoffed, tucking a few loose strands of hair under her helmet. “Missed being shot at? Only thing I miss more is spice mines and low-rent bounty gigs.”

Anakin grinned. “See? I knew you were fun.”

And to her own surprise… she laughed.

He didn’t ask where she’d been, didn’t pry about the Chancellor, didn’t even hint at what everyone else couldn’t shut up about. Just treated her like a soldier. Like a comrade.

When they hit the ground—dust choking the air, blaster fire already echoing in the distance—he took point without hesitation. She fell in beside him, blasters drawn, movements fluid, practiced. They didn’t need to speak to understand one another.

Flank, move, clear. He gave hand signals, and she followed instinctively. His saber lit up the smoke like a beacon, cutting through battle droids as easily as breath.

They moved through a warzone like ghosts—an unlikely but effective pair. She covered his blind spots, he powered through hers. The 501st swept behind them like a blue tide, and for the first time in months, she felt something almost like useful again.

At the edge of the battlefield, they ducked behind a crumbling wall to regroup.

Anakin exhaled. “You know, I get it,” he said suddenly.

She looked at him, brow furrowed under her helmet.

“Running. Hiding. Playing a part so big you forget who you actually are underneath it.”

A long pause. She stared out over the smoke-covered field, unsure of how to respond.

“You ever think about leaving it all behind?” he asked. “Just… disappearing?”

She glanced over at him, lips twitching. “I did disappear.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. But not the way you wanted to.”

She didn’t respond, but the truth of it burned behind her ribs.

A voice came crackling through comms—Rex, coordinating the rear line. The reader’s pulse skipped without reason. She forced herself to focus.

“Let’s go,” Anakin said, pushing up from cover and drawing his saber again. “Back to the chaos.”

She followed, silently grateful for the moment.

He hadn’t asked about Cody. Or Rex. Or the kid.

He hadn’t made her explain herself.

And for now, that made him the easiest person in the galaxy to be around.

⸻

The adrenaline was still thrumming in her blood as she pulled off her helmet and leaned against a sun-scorched wall. The air smelled like ash and ion discharge, and her armor was coated in dust and dried blood—not all of it hers.

She barely had a second to exhale before Ahsoka appeared like a shadow in the corner of her eye.

“You’re not going to disappear again, are you?” Ahsoka asked flatly.

The reader blinked, slow and tired. “Not planning on it.”

Ahsoka folded her arms, her lekku twitching ever so slightly. “I don’t get it. You show up, cause chaos—emotionally and otherwise—leave, then come back like nothing happened.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed, “but you owe someone one. Cody? Rex? The Council? The Chancellor? You burned every side of the board and expect to keep playing the game.”

The reader narrowed her eyes, pushing off the wall. “I don’t expect anything.”

“I can’t tell if you’re loyal or just really good at pretending.”

Before she could snap something cutting back, a calm voice intervened behind them.

“That’s enough, Snips.”

Anakin strode into view, hands on his belt, expression unreadable. Ahsoka glanced between the two of them, jaw tight, but ultimately nodded and walked off with a muttered, “Fine. But she’s not off the hook.”

Once she was gone, the reader exhaled through her nose. “She’s got a mean right hook. Bet she’s even worse when she’s got words.”

“She’s protective,” Anakin said with a shrug. “But she’s not wrong. Just… a little blunt.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the twilight settle in soft purples and oranges across the broken landscape. She looked over at him, surprised to see him still there, just… waiting.

“No lecture?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“No cryptic Jedi wisdom?”

“I’m fresh out,” he said with a smirk. “You want some unsolicited advice instead?”

She gave him a dry look. “Why not. Go for it.”

Anakin leaned against the same wall she had been using as support. “You’re a mess.”

“Thanks.”

“But so is everyone. That’s the secret no one talks about. We’re all running on fumes, bad decisions, and half-formed ideas of what we think is right.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “And here I thought you Jedi were supposed to be the poster boy of moral certainty.”

He shrugged. “Not me. Never was.”

Silence again. This time, more comfortable.

“I liked fighting with you today,” she admitted, surprising herself more than him.

He smiled. “I like fighting with you too.”

She studied his profile. “You’re not like the others.”

“That’s probably both a compliment and an insult.”

“Take it however you want.”

They both chuckled softly.

“Thanks for not asking about the Chancellor. Or the others. Or—”

“You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to,” Anakin said simply. “Not with me.”

She looked down at her hands, cut up and shaking slightly. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Then don’t say anything yet,” he said. “Just… be here. For once.”

Her chest ached at the simplicity of it. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

And for a moment, just a moment, she was someone without secrets.

⸻

Prev Chapter | Next Chapter

me rereading a scene: omg why is she acting like that who wrote this? i wrote this.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.4

The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.

The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.

Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.

Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.

As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.

Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.

It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.

"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."

Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."

Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."

The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.

As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.

***

The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.

When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.

You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.

He was here to watch you.

You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.

After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.

"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."

You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"

His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."

It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.

You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.

And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.

"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.

"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."

You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."

And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.

The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.

kind of actually soooo fucking funny that my man jung was like “I’m toast anyway they know what I’m up to” and then the ISB was like “we lost a great man and dedra meero is a rebel spy”