“The Lesser Of Two Wars” Pt.12
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.12
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.
The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.
And then—three knocks.
Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.
She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.
The screen lit up.
Fox.
Alone. No helmet. No men.
She didn’t hesitate.
She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.
His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.
“I won’t stay long.”
“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.
Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.
“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”
“You always think too much before doing what you want.”
He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”
The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.
Fox’s jaw twitched.
He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.
“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”
“I don’t want you to.”
She kissed him.
It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.
They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.
Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.
He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.
And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.
For once, neither of them said a thing.
There was no need.
⸻
Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.
Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.
He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.
Safe.
Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.
She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.
“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.
“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”
“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”
He smirked. “You snore.”
“Lies.”
There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.
“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”
“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”
“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”
More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.
Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”
“Vos,” she sighed.
A pause. “Of course.”
R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.
From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”
More angry beeps.
“You can’t just light me on fire!”
Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”
Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”
“No,” she said immediately.
Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”
A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.
Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”
She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”
He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”
Outside, GH’s voice rang again.
“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”
⸻
“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”
Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”
Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”
Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”
“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”
All three went silent for a second.
Then:
“Oh no.”
“Oh stars.”
“Oh hells.”
Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.
“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.
Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”
“Why?”
“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”
Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”
Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.
He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.
His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”
“Morning, gentlemen!”
Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.
He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”
Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”
Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”
There was a long, awful pause.
“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.
Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.
Thorn’s blood went cold.
“You’re saying they—?”
“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”
Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”
Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”
Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.
And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.
Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”
The commander turned and left without a word.
Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”
Stone and Thire glared.
Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”
Vos grinned. “I try.”
Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.
His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.
Rhythmic furniture movement.
Round two. Or was it three?
He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.
It shouldn’t matter.
She wasn’t his.
But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.
And Fox—
Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.
Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.
He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.
He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.
Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.
But deep down, Thorn knew.
Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.
Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.
He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.
He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.
Not to him.
⸻
The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.
She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.
The knock came anyway.
She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”
It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.
She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”
“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”
She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.
She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”
“I know.”
“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”
“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”
“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”
He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”
She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”
He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”
Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”
And then his lips were on hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.
She let him.
For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.
But she pulled back first.
His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.
“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.
“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”
She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”
Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.
⸻
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.
For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.
She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.
“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.
Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.
But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.
“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.
He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”
But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.
A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.
She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”
“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.
Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.
“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”
His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”
There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.
He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.
But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.
She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”
He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.
“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”
You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.
⸻
The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.
The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.
She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.
She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.
She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.
The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.
And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.
⸻
The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.
In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.
⸻
Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.
She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.
R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.
She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.
“Come in,” she called without looking up.
The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.
The moment she saw his face, she knew.
He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.
“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.
Her heart dropped.
“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.
Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.
“It’s Thorn.”
The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.
“No.”
“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”
Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.
“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.
Silence.
R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.
“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”
Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”
Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”
Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”
She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.
Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.
Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.
“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”
Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”
They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.
⸻
It was late.
The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.
She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.
Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.
She didn’t turn.
“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.
“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.
“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”
Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.
“I know.”
Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.
“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”
Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”
They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.
“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”
“That’s who he was.”
“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
Neither did Fox.
But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.
After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.
Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.
The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.
Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.
In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.
He didn’t knock anymore.
She didn’t ask him to leave.
He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.
Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.
She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.
One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.
He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.
“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.
Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”
That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”
She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.
“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“But I’m here. And I care about you.”
She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”
The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.
She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.
⸻
It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.
The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.
And Fox… was still hers.
Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.
She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.
It settled in her bones like frost.
That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.
He was going to the Jedi Temple.
“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.
“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”
She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.
“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”
He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.
“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”
She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”
He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.
Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.
She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.
And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.
⸻
The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.
The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.
It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.
But this time, it never came.
Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.
Commander Fox is dead.
Her world stopped spinning.
She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.
But he didn’t.
GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.
“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.
GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”
“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”
She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”
No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.
She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.
And now Fox.
The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.
He meant it.
But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.
Hours passed.
She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.
Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.
And finally—finally—she cried.
⸻
News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.
She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.
He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.
She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.
But she wouldn’t stop feeling.
So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.
When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.
When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.
It was only help, she told herself.
But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.
She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.
And then she began connecting them.
They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.
They were just people who remembered.
⸻
*time skip*
The banners were gone.
Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.
She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.
Everything was quieter now.
Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.
Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.
She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.
Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.
She was all of them. And none.
On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.
Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.
But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.
And yet, she remained.
When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.
Sometimes she said yes.
Sometimes she said no.
And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,
“Ask me again tomorrow.”
Previous part
A/N
I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
“Painted Gold”
Commander Bly x Twi’lek Reader
⸻
Your lekku ached by the end of the day—dust, sun, and tension clinging to your skin like static. The Republic base on Saleucami wasn’t built for comfort, especially not for Twi’leks. The durasteel walls felt colder, the clone stares felt longer.
But not his.
Commander Bly didn’t stare. He observed. Quietly. Constantly. With that golden visor that gave nothing away—and still, somehow, everything.
You’d first met him patching up his troops in the med bay you ran. Your hands worked quickly—practiced, efficient—but Bly’s attention never left the soldier on the table. Not until you touched his shoulder.
“Commander,” you’d said, “he’s stabilized. You can breathe.”
His helmet turned slowly toward you. “I am breathing.”
You hadn’t been so sure.
Now, weeks later, you’d come to expect him. He brought his troopers in for treatment like clockwork. Always formal. Always quiet. Always… watching.
Tonight, the base was quiet. Too quiet. Even the droids had stopped advancing—pulling back, regrouping. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones.
So could Bly.
He stood near the perimeter, hands behind his back, helmet off for once. His golden markings shimmered faintly in the dying sun, and his gaze was turned toward the horizon like it had something to answer for.
You walked up beside him, wrapping your arms around yourself.
“You always stand like that,” you said softly.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re bracing for something to hit you.”
He was quiet a moment.
“I usually am.”
You turned to look at him. His face was as hard as durasteel, but the lines were tired. Older than he should be. Too much war. Not enough sleep. Not enough peace.
“You’re not just watching the horizon, are you?” you asked. “You’re thinking.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Yes.”
“About what?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“About you.”
That stopped you.
“I’ve seen a lot of medics,” he continued, his voice low, gravelly, careful. “But I’ve never seen someone patch a man up like she’s stitching together something sacred. You treat every soldier like they matter.”
“They do matter.”
“I know. That’s what scares me.”
You looked away, heart tight. “Because they die?”
“Because I could.”
You turned back. He was staring at you now—truly staring. No visor. No armor. Just him.
“And if I did,” he said, softer now, “I wouldn’t want to go without… knowing what this is.”
You didn’t breathe.
“I don’t know how to say it right,” he added. “Never learned. But when I see you—it’s like there’s a part of the war that isn’t ugly.”
You reached out, fingers brushing his hand. “You don’t need to say it right, Bly. You already did.”
His hand curled around yours. Warm. Rough. Real.
And there, on the edge of battle, surrounded by silence and fading light, Commander Bly leaned in and pressed his forehead gently to yours—Twi’lek to clone, soldier to healer, broken to breaking.
And you let him.
Because love didn’t always come with declarations.
Sometimes, it came painted in gold.
⸻
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”
this is the peak of my artistic career
“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
“Red Lines” pt.1
Fox X Reader
Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.
⸻
The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.
You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.
“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.
You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.
“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”
Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.
“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”
You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”
The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”
The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.
“Senator [L/N], a moment?”
Chuchi.
You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”
“And I call you reckless.”
You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”
The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.
Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.
“Senators.”
Both of you turned in unison.
Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.
Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.
“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”
You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.
Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.
Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.
“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”
You shot her a look.
She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.
You both had the same thought.
Oh. He’s beautiful.
And neither of you was going to back down.
⸻
The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.
You hated every second of it.
The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.
You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.
“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.
You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.
“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”
His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”
You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.
“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”
You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”
Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”
You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”
Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”
“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.
A moment later, you felt the air shift.
You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.
Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.
The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.
You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.
Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.
She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.
You smiled. She didn’t.
She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.
You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.
“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”
“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”
Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.
You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.
She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.
You drained your glass.
She was playing the charm angle.
You? You preferred a more direct approach.
You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.
You timed it perfectly.
“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.
He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.
“Senator,” he acknowledged.
“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.
He hesitated. “Not particularly.”
You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”
His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”
There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.
“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”
You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”
Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.
“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”
“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”
Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”
You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”
Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.
He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.
The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.
Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”
Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.
You watched him go. So did Chuchi.
The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.
“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”
You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.
“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”
You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”
Chuchi’s jaw tensed.
You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”
“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”
You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”
She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”
You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”
She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.
“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”
You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”
She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.
“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”
You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.
You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.
Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.
And now?
It was war.
The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.
Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.
You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.
There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.
You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.
“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”
Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.
“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”
You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”
One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.
“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”
You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”
He sneered. “You have no proof.”
You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”
Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.
“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.
You blinked, surprised.
Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”
Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”
You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”
Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”
Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”
“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”
The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.
You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”
He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”
You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”
“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.
He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.
You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.
You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.
This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.
⸻
The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.
You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.
Not without one last indulgence.
You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.
You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.
“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.
Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”
That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.
You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”
Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.
Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”
You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”
More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”
“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”
“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.
You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”
“Notice what?”
“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”
One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”
“CT-8812. Silence.”
“Yessir!”
You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”
“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”
You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”
His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”
You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”
Fox said nothing.
You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”
The silence stretched.
Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.
Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”
“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.
Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.
“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.
You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”
He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.
You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.
“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”
“I don’t,” he said flatly.
You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”
You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”
He blinked once behind the visor.
Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.
Let him stand there and figure it out.
If he could.
The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.
Senator Riyo Chuchi.
Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.
“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”
Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”
“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”
Fox blinked. “Senator?”
Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”
“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.
Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”
He was quiet a moment.
“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”
Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”
She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”
Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”
“Was she?”
He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”
Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”
Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.
“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”
Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.
“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”
She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.
“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”
She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.
Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.
And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.
⸻
Next part
stop asking “is this good?” and start asking “did it cause emotional damage?” that’s how you know.
We've gathered here today in celebration of men with pretty brown eyes
Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?
Thank you for the request!
Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!
⸻
Title: “Just Like the Rest”
Crosshair x Fem!Reader
Warnings: Injury, death, angst
When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.
Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.
“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”
Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”
You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”
His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.
You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”
He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.
You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.
⸻
You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.
“Careful,” he grunted.
You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”
Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.
You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.
It made him interesting.
“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”
Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.
“You ever shut up?”
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”
And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.
And then the war ended.
⸻
The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.
Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.
You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.
Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.
You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.
When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.
But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.
“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.
He didn’t answer.
“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”
Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”
His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”
He said nothing.
“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”
His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”
He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”
That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.
Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.
You stepped back.
“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
And this time, you were the one to leave.
⸻
The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.
You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.
But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.
And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.
So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.
And then one day—you saw him again.
You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.
“Crosshair.”
He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”
“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”
You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.
“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”
You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”
“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”
You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.
And you were easy to hate.
Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.
Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.
Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.
⸻
Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.
But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.
You were trusting again.
Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.
And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.
“Did you know what they were doing here?”
“Do you regret staying?”
“Why did you help me?”
You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.
And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.
Omega.
They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.
The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:
“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.
You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.
Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.
She’d whisper across the room in the dark.
“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”
Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”
She smiled.
You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.
You started planning.
You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.
The night came fast.
Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.
You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.
That’s when he stopped.
“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”
You shook your head. “I’m not going.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.
“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”
“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”
Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”
You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”
Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.
And then, quietly:
“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”
“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”
You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.
“Get her out,” you whispered.
And then you ran back toward the alarms.
⸻
The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.
You weren’t broken.
Not yet.
Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.
He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.
“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”
You didn’t speak.
He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.
“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”
You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”
Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.
“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”
“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”
He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.
“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”
Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.
“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”
You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”
That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”
You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.
“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”
Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.
“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”
As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.
“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”
He tilted his head, amused.
“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”
You smiled through bloodied teeth.
“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”
⸻
They didn’t let you say goodbye.
They didn’t let you scream.
But you didn’t beg.
You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.
And you went quietly.
Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.
⸻
Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:
“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”
He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.
Hunter didn’t say anything.
Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.
I saw your fic “What’s that smell” and thought it was absolutely beautiful! I was wondering what would be the rest of the batches reactions to the new smells. I can’t imagine what their ship would smell like and then having it change and maybe even be cleaner. You’re the best! Xx
Their ship would 100% smell like oil, sweat, blaster residue, old caf, dusty armor polish, and wet dog on a good day.
Here is what I believe the rest of the batches reactions are.
Crosshair
The first time he notices it, he’s practically scowling.
He hates things he can’t immediately explain, and suddenly the ship doesn’t smell like burnt wiring and recycled air anymore — it smells like…
something soft.
Something warm.
Something he can’t stop breathing in.
He’s so annoyed about it he follows you around for an entire day, sniffing the air like a pissed-off lothcat, trying to figure out if it’s you or if someone installed a karking air freshener.
When he finally realizes it’s you, he just stands there staring at you for a long second, lips pressed into a tight line.
Then he mutters:
“You smell… distracting.”
Like it’s a personal insult.
Will absolutely lean in closer than necessary just to breathe you in — but if you catch him, he’ll immediately go “Hmph” and pretend you’re the weird one.
Wrecker
Wrecker’s the first to flat-out say it.
He scoops you up into a bone-crushing hug one day, immediately sniffs, and then pulls back with wide, amazed eyes.
“Whoa! You smell amazing! Like… like sunshine! And pastries! And soap!”
He is obsessed after that. Every time you walk by, he inhales dramatically like a toddler discovering their favorite candy.
“Can we keep ya?” he jokes — but he means it. You’re like a walking comfort blanket for him.
The Marauder slowly starts smelling better too because Wrecker starts cleaning more — purely because he wants the nice smell to stick around.
Tech
Tech notices immediately, but being Tech, he processes it differently.
“Interesting,” he says aloud the first time you pass him. “The olfactory change is quite pleasant.”
Then he starts… researching it.
He runs calculations about human pheromones and attraction rates. He theorizes that your presence might lower the crew’s stress levels by up to 23%.
He doesn’t even realize he’s orbiting closer to you during missions until Wrecker points it out.
Embarrassed, he adjusts his goggles and mutters something about “optimal proximity for psychological benefits.”
Translation: You smell good and it’s making his brain short-circuit, help.
Echo
Echo notices it like a punch to the face because he’s so hyperaware of sensory input now.
The Marauder always smells like metal and grime — he’s used to it — but you?
You smell like rain hitting dry ground. Like something clean and alive and real.
It shakes him a little.
Reminds him of before — before the war, before everything.
He tries to be subtle about it, but you catch him lingering near you sometimes, jaw tight like he’s trying not to let himself want it.
One day you brush past him and he closes his eyes for half a second, just breathing you in.
He doesn’t say anything about it for a long time.
Until maybe you tease him — and he finally admits, voice low and rough:
“You make this whole ship feel… less like a graveyard.”
Which might be the most devastatingly sweet thing Echo could ever say.
Echo x Old Republic Jedi Reader pt.2
⸻
The ramp of the Marauder hissed as it lowered, groaning under the weight of exhausted boots and heavier egos. Smoke clung to armor plates and robes alike, the remnants of their latest skirmish still staining their clothes and lungs. But they were alive, in one piece, and Wrecker had already claimed that meant it was time for a snack.
“I told you,” Wrecker declared, stomping down the ramp with a grin that was a little too smug for someone who’d nearly face-planted during the evac, “nothing brings people closer than a near-death experience! Team bonding, baby.”
“Tell that to the squad of clankers you flattened like pancakes,” Tech muttered, adjusting his goggles. “They didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about our cohesion.”
Behind them, Echo trudged down with his helmet tucked under one arm, glancing behind him for you. His expression softened the moment his eyes met yours. You were brushing ash off your tunic and tucking your lightsaber back into your belt, brow furrowed in focus as always—but you felt his gaze and looked up with the smallest smile.
“Nice work back there,” Echo said, and though his voice was soft, it cut through the banter around you. “You saved my shebs. Again.”
You shrugged, trying to hide the way your heart jumped at the way he looked at you—like you were the whole kriffing galaxy. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“I already have,” he said, voice low, his smile a little crooked. You bumped shoulders with him, rolling your eyes with a grin that gave you away.
Hunter, catching the exchange from the edge of the ramp, raised a brow. “You two always this obvious?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Wrecker chimed in, loud enough to turn heads. “She’s totally his girlfriend.”
You froze mid-step. Echo’s expression twitched like his brain had blue-screened for a second.
“I—what—Wrecker!” he hissed, ears practically glowing red.
Wrecker threw up his hands, unbothered. “What? Everyone sees it! I mean, c’mon! They were making goo-goo eyes while taking down that tank together. That’s not ‘standard Jedi–clone operational procedure,’ that’s ‘save-the-galaxy-together’ couple stuff!”
Crosshair snorted from where he leaned against the ship. “You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. “That’s unrealistic. She’s not just a Jedi—she’s Old Republic trained. The whole code is sacred thing, remember?”
You gave Crosshair a look and stepped forward with arms crossed, voice cool and amused. “So you’re saying I can’t be both a warrior and a woman with depth?”
Crosshair stared at you for a moment, blinked once, and turned away. “Didn’t say that.”
Echo cleared his throat and stepped between you and the others, half-shielding you like instinct. “Can we not discuss Jedi doctrine like we’re gossiping in the barracks?”
“Oh, now he’s shy,” Tech said, tilting his head.
Wrecker grinned at you. “She didn’t say no, though.”
“Wrecker—” Echo growled, but you touched his arm, and he stopped short.
You looked up at him, just for a second. “Let them talk. We know what this is.”
Echo studied you—carefully, gently—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast. Then he nodded, just once. “Yeah. We do.”
The team fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, still teasing, still tossing back jabs and laughs, but it all faded a little in your periphery as Echo walked beside you. And maybe the Jedi code was sacred. Maybe there were rules. But as the sun dipped low over the landing pad and he smiled down at you like you were the one thing anchoring him to this chaotic galaxy, you weren’t thinking about rules.
You were thinking: Maybe we can survive this. Together.
⸻
The stars outside the viewport blinked like distant memories. The Marauder hummed with its usual low thrum, the rest of the squad either asleep or pretending to be. It was one of those rare, fragile moments—when the galaxy felt like it was holding its breath, just long enough for two people to realize they weren’t alone in it.
Echo sat on one of the benches in the common room, armor stripped down to the basics, a cup of something warm in his hand. You stepped in barefoot, robes loose and hair still damp from a rushed rinse, like you were shedding the battlefield piece by piece.
He looked up. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You shook your head, padding over to sit beside him. The silence between you was companionable, soft. You both knew how loud your thoughts got at night.
After a while, you pulled something from the inner pocket of your robes—a small, weathered talisman on a leather cord. Gold and deep bronze etched with faint runes, worn smooth by time and touch. Echo tilted his head.
“What’s that?”
You held it between your fingers for a second, then placed it gently in his hands.
“It’s… old. Really old,” you said. “It was given to me when I became a Padawan. Back long before the war, before the Jedi and the old Order became a memory. My master said it would keep me anchored. It’s seen every part of my life since—battlefields, meditations, exile, heartbreak, my Millenia long carbon freeze prisonment.”
Echo turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the ancient symbols. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I don’t think I need to be anchored anymore,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Not in the past, anyway. You remind me that I’m still here. That I still get to be here. And if anyone should carry a piece of where I came from into the future… it’s you.”
His fingers stilled. He looked at you like you were some impossible thing—like someone who should’ve been gone centuries ago, yet was sitting beside him, breathing the same air, bleeding in the same war.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
You smiled softly. “Just don’t lose it.”
Echo slipped the talisman over his head carefully, reverently, and tucked it under his chest plate. When he looked back at you, there was something heavy in his eyes—something like wonder, something like love.
“You always talk like you’re a ghost,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re flesh and blood, and you’re here. With us. With me. You don’t have to drift anymore.”
Your heart caught. You reached up and brushed your fingertips against his jaw, and he leaned into it without hesitation.
“I don’t feel like a ghost when I’m with you,” you whispered. “I feel… alive.”
Echo leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
And in the stillness of the Marauder, with the stars watching in silence, it felt like maybe—just maybe—the galaxy wasn’t all war and death and shadows.
It could be this, too.
It could be you and him.
⸻
Part 1
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