“There Are Other Ways”

once again i love how star wars takes place in a massive galaxy with thousands of planets and billions of people, and yet every bounty hunter knows each other personally

“Crossfire” pt.3

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

You weren’t supposed to be in the clones barracks.

But you rarely went where you were supposed to.

The corridors were quiet, the hum of the ventilation system steady in your ears. Most of the troopers were off-duty or deployed, leaving the barracks feeling like a ghost shell of itself. You moved like you belonged—fluid, confident, precise. The kind of presence that drew attention and made others question their instincts.

Then—

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The voice stopped you mid-step.

Commander Cody stood in the hallway, brow furrowed, arms crossed. His armor was half-off—pauldrons gone, chest plate open, undersuit exposed to the dim light. He looked tired. Suspicious.

And maddeningly attractive.

You offered him your best smile. “Missed the smell of plastoid and repressed emotions.”

Cody didn’t laugh. He didn’t blink. “Answer the question.”

“I came to see a friend.”

“Name.”

You stepped closer, eyes gleaming. “Commander Cody.”

Cody’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t move. “You vanished. No comms. No explanation.”

“And yet here I am,” you whispered, voice lower now. “Alive. Still on the right side… mostly.”

He stared you down. “You don’t belong in this sector.”

“You gonna arrest me?” you asked, chin tilted up, a faint challenge in your tone.

“I should.”

“But you won’t.”

Silence. Charged and heavy.

He looked at you then—really looked. Not as a mission asset or potential threat. Just… you.

You took a step closer, reaching out and brushing your fingers against the edge of his unarmored shoulder. “You gonna keep pretending you don’t like when I do this?”

He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

But he didn’t answer either.

And that said more than enough. You pulled your hand away from Cody slowly, leaving a ghost of heat behind.

“Still pretending?” you asked.

He didn’t answer.

But when you turned to leave, his voice stopped you again.

“Don’t make me choose between you and the Republic.”

You paused.

Then, without looking back: “You might have to.”

⸻

Meanwhile – Jedi Temple, Council Chambers

Master Kit Fisto stood in the center of the room, arms folded behind his back, expression solemn. “She’s not just reckless. She’s evasive. Deceptive. She’s manipulating soldiers. Getting close in ways that compromise their judgment.”

Mace Windu’s eyes were cold steel. “I’ve seen the reports. She shouldn’t have been on Teth in the first place. And then she vanishes with a Force-sensitive child?”

Yoda hummed, tapping his cane. “Proof, you lack. The Chancellor’s word, she has.”

Kit pressed forward. “I watched her outside 79’s. The way she moved. The way she spoke to the clones. She’s not interested in loyalty. She’s interested in influence.”

Obi-Wan, leaning forward, tapped the table gently. “I won’t pretend she isn’t… complicated. But she’s fought beside us. Risked her life for the Republic. There’s more to her than subterfuge.”

“She’s dangerous,” Mace said firmly. “And she has access to our inner circles through the Chancellor. That makes her a risk.”

“Or a tool,” Obi-Wan countered. “If used wisely.”

“A tool for who, I wonder,” Kit muttered.

Yoda’s eyes narrowed, deep in thought.

“The Chancellor’s friend, she is,” he murmured. “But in shadows, much hides. Watch her, we must.”

⸻

The smell of caf hung heavy in the air. Trays clattered, boots thudded, and clone chatter rose in a dull, tired murmur. The war never stopped—but moments like this made it feel like it slowed.

Rex sat at the edge of a table, arms crossed, a half-eaten ration bar forgotten on his tray.

Across from him, Kix, Fives, Jesse, and Tup were deep in a low conversation, and even though they weren’t exactly trying to hide it, the minute Kix glanced Rex’s way, the silence tightened.

He noticed.

“What?” Rex asked flatly, his tone already edged.

Kix looked reluctant. Jesse grimaced. Fives looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Tup leaned forward and said it bluntly: “She was here last night. Sector C-9.”

Rex’s spine straightened. “What?”

“Commander Cody’s floor,” Kix clarified, stirring his caf. “No clearance. No escort. Just… strolled in.”

“Unannounced,” Jesse added, a bit more cautiously. “Didn’t cause trouble, but still. It’s odd.”

“She’s got a pattern,” Tup said. “Getting close to officers. Playing coy. Smiling at everyone like she knows a secret.”

Fives grinned. “I’d let her manipulate me.”

“Of course you would,” Kix muttered.

“She’s a distraction,” Tup continued. “And a dangerous one. What’s she even doing here again? She’s not military.”

“She’s useful,” Jesse countered. “She’s worked with us before. She gets results.”

“She disappears without a trace and comes back with clearance from the Chancellor,” Kix said quietly. “No chain of command, no protocol. It’s off.”

Rex didn’t speak for a moment, staring down at his tray like it held answers.

Then, softly: “Where is she now?”

Fives looked up from his drink, smirking. “Why? Planning on asking Cody?”

Rex stood up without another word.

⸻

You were leaning against the rusted edge of a shipping container in the lower levels, checking a concealed blaster’s sight when you heard footsteps behind you.

“Didn’t know I needed a guard dog,” you said without looking. “Let me guess—Cody ratted me out?”

“You were in the barracks,” Rex said.

You turned to face him, expression unreadable. “I was.”

“Why?”

You met his stare. “Why do you care?”

Rex’s jaw clenched. “Because I don’t know what side you’re playing anymore.”

You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “Does it bother you that I was with Cody? Or that you weren’t the one I came to see?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought,” you said, stepping closer. “You liked it better when I was gone.”

“I liked it better when I trusted you.”

The space between you was close now. Tense. Alive.

“I never asked for your trust, Captain,” you whispered. “But you gave it. And now you’re scared you’ll have to take it back.”

He stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stepped back.

“Stay away from my men,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head. “Or what?”

“You won’t get another warning.”

Then he turned and left.

You watched him go, pulse steady, mask in place—but somewhere beneath it, something twisted just a little tighter.

⸻

Mace Windu stood before a star chart, arms folded, as Kit Fisto entered and closed the door behind him.

“She’s sowing division among the clones,” Kit said without preamble. “I’m hearing it from troopers. Rumors. Questions.”

“Even Skywalker’s men?”

“Especially them.”

Mace nodded grimly. “She’s destabilizing morale.”

“Yoda still thinks she may serve a purpose.”

“He’s wrong,” Mace said. “The Chancellor’s got her in his pocket. She’s not our ally—she’s his spy.”

“And if she’s in the field again?” Kit asked.

Mace’s eyes narrowed.

“We keep watching. And when she slips—we move.”

⸻

The city outside glowed gold with the rising sun, but inside the Chancellor’s office, everything felt cold and deliberate. You stood still as Chancellor Palpatine circled slowly, hands clasped behind his back, voice smooth as silk.

“There’s a mission,” he said. “One only you can be trusted with.”

She didn’t flinch. “Who’s involved?”

“Master Windu. General Kenobi. Their men. You will join them as my personal attache.”

A pause.

“Officially, you’ll be assisting in clearing the last remnants of a Separatist stronghold on Erobus,” he continued. “Unofficially, there are certain… elements beneath the facility I want destroyed without the Jedi ever knowing they existed. Do you understand?”

She nodded once. “And if they suspect me?”

He gave a soft, chilling smile. “Then perhaps it is time they learned to trust my allies. You will prove yourself invaluable.”

She didn’t like it. She rarely did. But she knew better than to argue.

⸻

The dropship roared through Erobus’s dead sky. Wind carried the smoke of a long-dead battlefield. The reader sat apart from the Jedi and the clones, her gaze fixed out the narrow viewport.

General Kenobi was in quiet conversation with Commander Cody. Windu sat in silence, fingers steepled in meditation. The clones around her — the 212th — watched her like she was an animal in a cage. Not openly hostile. Just… unsure.

She didn’t blame them.

“Never thought we’d see you again,” Cody muttered as he walked past her toward the front. “You just have a habit of showing up where things are about to explode?”

She smirked. “And you have a habit of being too pretty for your own good.”

He raised a brow but kept walking.

Windu had acknowledged her presence with a nod. Kenobi had raised a brow, but said nothing. This time, there was no need to pretend. She was here by Palpatine’s orders—but acting as if she belonged among them.

They moved quickly, carving through what little resistance remained. The reader fought without flourish—blasters precise, movement efficient, lethal. She noticed how Windu watched her more than he watched the enemy. Not with distrust. With… calculation.

The mission moved fast. She fought alongside the Jedi and the troopers, not quite one of them, but not an outsider either. Not anymore.

She planted explosives in corridors no one else entered. Disabled systems no one else noticed. And when Windu asked too many questions, she deflected with just enough truth to keep suspicion from blooming.

She was the perfect tool.

When the fighting ended and the skies were silent again, the group began regrouping for departure.

But Windu stayed behind.

She stood at the edge of the rubble, arms crossed, staring at the still-burning wreckage. Windu approached silently, his presence calm and weighted.

“You were too comfortable in there,” Windu said.

She tilted her head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“You knew where to strike. What to look for.”

“And?”

His gaze sharpened. “And you’ve done this before.”

She hesitated.

Then said, “I’ve done a lot of things.”

He studied her. Then, in a voice low and almost too calm: “Why do you work for him? Palpatine?”

She didn’t blink. “Because I’m too afraid not to.”

That stunned him — not because she said it, but because of how honest it was.

“You hesitated,” he said simply.

She glanced at him, unbothered. “I’m always hesitant when explosives are involved.”

She exhaled, the smoke curling from the wreckage catching in the light. “The clones… they trust blindly. They don’t see the game being played around them. They deserve better.”

Windu’s voice was low. “So why play the game?”

She was quiet for a moment, then: “Because I’m not brave enough not to.”

Windu stepped closer. “The Chancellor—does he own your fear?”

She met his eyes, finally lowering her hood. “He owns everyone’s fear. I just know better than to pretend otherwise.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

Then Windu said, “You care about them. The clones.”

“I care about them,” she added quietly. “The clones. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Windu was silent for a long time. “Then maybe you’re not the threat we thought you were.”

“But I still am a threat,” she said, soft and sharp.

He didn’t argue. “So is everyone these days.”

They stood side by side, the flames crackling around them. For the first time, Windu didn’t look at her like she was a threat. He looked at her like someone caught between survival and sacrifice—like he understood.

Finally, he said, “Let’s get back.”

As they walked toward the ship, the reader didn’t look back. But deep down, a new kind of fear was blooming—because for the first time, someone from the Council believed in her.

And she didn’t know how long she could keep surviving if that belief ever turned to betrayal.

⸻

The storm had passed, but the sky was still dark.

Republic shuttles hummed, crates clanged, clone troopers barked orders as the camp disassembled around her. The reader stood near the edge of the landing pad, helmet in one hand, half-listening to the static on her comm.

“Classified orders from the Chancellor.” That’s what the officer had said. “Immediate departure. Debrief in person.”

She should’ve walked straight to the shuttle. But she lingered. And he found her.

Cody.

He walked up slow, arms crossed, boots crunching gravel beneath him. His armor was dusted in ash and plasma scarring. She glanced at him but didn’t speak first.

“I figured you’d disappear again,” he said.

“Still might.”

He nodded. “You always do.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just… tired honesty.

She looked up at him fully then. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t know what to trust,” he replied, voice low. “You fight beside us. Then vanish. You show up under the Chancellor’s banner with Jedi clearance and secrets you don’t share.”

“I’m doing what I was asked to do.”

“By him.”

She stepped closer. “If I was working against you, you’d already be dead, Cody.”

He didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re on our side.”

Silence fell between them, heavy as armor.

“I’m not the enemy,” she said finally.

“No,” Cody said, his eyes locked on hers. “But you’re not really one of us either.”

She looked away first. Her jaw clenched, throat dry. “I didn’t come here to explain myself.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

But as she turned to go, his voice followed her — quieter this time, almost uncertain:

“You care about the men. I see that. But whatever it is you’re caught in… don’t let it destroy you.”

She stopped, just for a second. Looked back over her shoulder, the weight of unspoken words between them.

“Too late,” she said.

Then she walked away, boarding the shuttle bound for Coruscant — bound for the Chancellor.

And Cody stood there long after she was gone.

⸻

The doors hissed shut behind her, sealing out the sounds of the city. Inside, the chamber was dim, silent, and airless—more a tomb than an office.

Chancellor Palpatine stood alone by the wide viewport, hands folded behind his back. The galactic skyline stretched endlessly beyond him, golden and glittering, but he never looked at it. His gaze was fixed far beyond, somewhere the reader couldn’t see.

She approached without speaking. She knew better.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“You completed your task on Erobus.”

“Yes.”

“And General Windu now believes you to be… sincere.”

“More or less.”

He turned to face her, that ever-calm expression carved into something unreadable. His voice stayed velvet-smooth.

“And yet I’m hearing troubling things. From the Temple. From officers in the field. About your behavior.”

Her brow lifted. “My behavior?”

“The clones,” he said simply. “Your… fondness for them. Particularly certain commanders.”

A silence settled between them.

He stepped closer.

“They are tools,” he said, tone soft but cold beneath. “Weapons. Instruments of war. Their purpose is clear. Yours is not.”

She straightened slightly. “I care about them.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “A mistake. One that risks unraveling everything I’ve placed you into position to accomplish.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve done enough to sow doubt,” he snapped, his voice a sudden blade. “Among the Jedi. Among the troops. You’re being watched. And unless you want to be removed from this game completely, you will stop.”

He let the silence linger, then added with that familiar, venom-wrapped charm:

“No more flirting. No more attachments. No more secrets from me.”

She met his gaze. “You put me in the middle of this war like I’m a pawn.”

“You’re not a pawn,” he said. “You’re a scalpel. Sharp. Precise. And replaceable, if dulled.”

Her jaw clenched. But she said nothing.

He studied her a moment longer, then turned back to the window.

“You’ll be summoned soon. Another operation. One that cannot afford distraction. Stay focused, my dear. Or next time I will send someone else.”

She left without another word, the cold of the chamber clinging to her bones.

⸻

Sunlight filtered through the vast windows, casting long rays across the silent chamber. The Jedi Council had assembled in full, tension clinging to the space like smoke.

Obi-Wan stood near the center, arms tucked into his robes. Kit Fisto paced with measured steps, green tendrils swaying. Luminary Unduli remained seated but rigid, her eyes dark and sharp. Mace Windu watched all of them, silent but alert.

Chancellor Palpatine stood calmly before them, hands folded, robed in deep crimson. The ever-smiling face of the Republic.

“We have reason to believe she’s gone underground,” Kit said at last, stopping mid-step. “Not just off-world—off-grid. She’s not been seen on Coruscant in days.”

Yoda’s ears lifted slightly. “Certain, are you?”

“She hasn’t reported in to her handler. Even the Chancellor can’t locate her,” Obi-Wan added, glancing at Palpatine.

Palpatine smiled thinly. “She works alone. That’s her strength. She’s unpredictable, yes, but not disloyal.”

“With respect, Chancellor,” Ki-Adi-Mundi interjected, “you yourself said her role was to assist the Jedi and the Senate. If she’s acting without instruction, she may no longer be operating in the Republic’s best interest.”

Palpatine’s smile didn’t falter. “She has always completed her missions. Always served the Republic’s cause—even if her methods were… unconventional.”

“She disappears when it suits her,” Luminary said coolly. “We do not know her true allegiance.”

“Nor her past,” Kit added. “Only that she is dangerous. Charming, yes. Tactical. But too close to too many of our clone officers.”

A silence fell again—this time heavier.

“She has gained the respect of some among us,” Mace finally said. “She confided in me. Her concern for the clones felt genuine.”

“And yet,” Kit said, “she manipulates that very concern to gain access and loyalty. I have seen it.”

Palpatine’s expression darkened slightly. “She has been instrumental in your victories. On Teth. On Erobus. She has risked her life for your cause, and for mine.”

“She serves your purpose, Chancellor,” Luminary said carefully. “But does she serve ours?”

Yoda’s voice cut through the room, quiet and calm. “Much we do not see. Dangerous, it is, to distrust allies too easily. But more dangerous still to trust without clarity.”

Palpatine exhaled slowly, placing his hand over his heart. “When she returns—and she will—you’ll see where her loyalties lie. Until then, I advise patience.”

The Council murmured among themselves. Some nodded. Some frowned. Some, like Kit Fisto and Ki-Adi-Mundi, exchanged long, skeptical glances.

The meeting dissolved soon after, but the air remained heavy with unease.

And somewhere far beyond Coruscant’s towers and temples, the reader moved unseen, far from both Jedi and Chancellor.

⸻

The bar was unusually quiet for a Friday night. Clones leaned against the counter, some still half-dressed from field drills, others fresh from debriefs, beer and synth-whiskey in hand. Laughter echoed in pockets. But the air carried something else too—unease.

Rex sat at a table near the back, helmet on the seat beside him. Cody dropped into the chair opposite, his brow drawn tight. They both had the look of men who’d been chasing shadows.

“She’s not answering her comms,” Rex muttered, swirling the drink in his hand. “Not to me, not to anyone.”

“Chancellor doesn’t know where she is either,” Cody said under his breath. “I checked through back channels. Even her client records went dark.”

Rex leaned back. “This isn’t like her.”

Cody didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tabletop for a beat too long. Then:

“Isn’t it?”

That hit Rex like a shot to the ribs. He sat up straighter. “What are you saying?”

“She’s not one of us, Rex. You know that. She comes and goes. Answers to people we don’t even see. And half the time, she’s in our barracks or our war rooms like she belongs there.”

“She helped us.”

“She also got close to a lot of us. Real close.”

Rex scowled. “You jealous?”

Cody shot him a sharp look. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Jesse dropped into a nearby seat, nursing a bruised jaw and a half-drained bottle. “You two talking about her again?”

“We’re trying to figure out where she is,” Rex said.

“Probably off charming someone new,” Jesse smirked. “Girl like that doesn’t disappear unless she’s got a good reason. Maybe she’s doing something for the Chancellor again.”

“Or for herself,” Cody said darkly.

Fives leaned in from the next table, ever the one to eavesdrop. “I heard she was seen boarding a Separatist freighter.”

“What?” Rex snapped.

“Some civvie transport crew in the outer systems. Said they saw someone matching her description getting on with a kid. Republic IDs, but separatist ship. Weird, right?”

Kix joined them, arms folded. “That’s not all. Some of the 212th are saying she had unrestricted access to classified battle plans. And now she’s vanished. Doesn’t look good.”

“Dangerous woman,” Tup murmured from the side. “Real dangerous. She’s been playing the long game. With us. With the Jedi. Maybe even the Chancellor.”

“She’s not a manipulator,” Rex growled. “She’s not the enemy.”

But his voice wavered for the first time.

Cody looked at him—hard, quiet.

“I want to believe that too, vod. But she didn’t just disappear. She chose to.”

A long silence fell over the table.

In the corner, Fives just smirked. “Hot, though. Definitely hot.”

Everyone groaned.

But beneath the laughter, doubt ran deep.

And in the back of Rex’s mind, a seed had been planted. One he couldn’t shake.

⸻

There was a kind of quiet in hyperspace she never got used to.

It wasn’t silence—ships hummed, wires buzzed, engines thrummed low like a heartbeat. But it was a strange, hollow quiet. The kind that filled the space behind your ribs when you were running from something, but didn’t know what yet.

She leaned back in the pilot’s seat, one leg propped on the console, the other jittering restlessly beneath her. The co-pilot’s chair beside her was tilted back, a blanket bunched across it, and a sleeping kid tucked beneath it—her “asset,” according to the encrypted file the Chancellor had burned into her comms a month ago.

Force-sensitive. About eight. Big eyes. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made her nervous.

She hadn’t given him a name. He hadn’t offered one.

He just followed her like a shadow, never crying, never resisting. He watched her like he was trying to memorize her—every twitch of her fingers, every sigh she let slip when she thought he wasn’t listening. Sometimes, she felt like he was the one babysitting her.

It should’ve made her skin crawl. Instead, it just… got under it. Slipped in sideways. Left a permanent chill.

She was supposed to wait for new instructions. No contact. No Republic. Not even the Chancellor wanted her sending outbound transmissions.

“Too risky,” he’d said. “Stay buried. Until I call for you.”

That was fine.

She didn’t want to hear from him. Not after what he’d made her do.

So she flew. Drifted between systems, one jump ahead of suspicion. Took the kid to Felucia—quiet jungles, strange colors. Then to Naboo. Then to Kashyyyk. The Wookiees didn’t talk much, and when they did, they didn’t ask questions. She liked that.

The kid liked it too.

He smiled when the wind hit his face, laughed when the vines swung low enough for him to climb. He meditated with the elders under the great trees, palms flat, eyes closed, lips moving in languages he didn’t know.

She didn’t know what to do with him.

She could fight men twice her size, break into a warship, and disappear from Coruscant’s grid in under five minutes—but kids?

Force-sensitive, fragile, unpredictable kids?

Not her forte.

Still, she bought him warm food when he was hungry. Sat with him when the nights were too loud. Pulled the blanket up over him when he nodded off mid-jump.

And he… trusted her.

Gods help him.

And Then.

The transmission came mid-jump. An old code. Buried deep.

She opened it. Expected orders. Coordinates. Updates.

Instead, she got this:

“Terminate the asset.”

Just that.

No signature. No voice message. Just those three words in bloodless text.

She sat still for a long time, the cockpit lights casting pale gold across her features.

No.

Her hand hovered over the console. She could delete it. Pretend she never saw it.

Or… she could do exactly what he said.

She looked at the boy—still sleeping, thumb tucked near his mouth, his little body curled like a comma in the co-pilot’s seat.

He trusted her. Even after everything. Even knowing nothing.

And she—

She didn’t know how to kill him.

She didn’t want to.

Her fingers slowly lowered.

She encrypted the message. Buried it. Then cut off all outbound comms completely. Even the backup ones Palpatine thought she didn’t know he’d installed.

And for the first time since she agreed to this job, she felt something like resolve settle in her chest.

She wasn’t going to kill the kid.

Not for Palpatine. Not for anyone.

She’d disappear again. Go dark. Real dark.

And figure it out on her own.

⸻

Three months later and the smell of dirt never really left her hands.

Didn’t matter how long she scrubbed them, how hot the water was, how much Wookiee soap she used—the scent was baked in now. Like soot after fire. Like blood under your nails.

The kid was currently chasing a flock of half-feral featherbeasts across the field, shrieking with laughter while they squawked and ran in all directions like headless idiots. He’d tied one of her spare bandanas around his head and called himself “The King of Beaks.” She wasn’t sure if it was a game or a cult.

She squinted up at the twin suns and groaned, wiping sweat from her brow with a dirt-stained sleeve.

“This was a mistake.”

The house—if you could call it that—was lopsided and half-sunken into the earth like it had given up on being vertical. The roof leaked when it rained, which was often. The windows were warped. There was a trapdoor in the pantry she hadn’t opened yet because, frankly, she was afraid of what lived down there.

They’d been here for three months.

Three whole, uninterrupted months of staying hidden, staying off-grid, and pretending to be something other than what they were: a wanted merc with blood on her hands, and a stolen Force-sensitive child the Chancellor wanted dead.

The farm had been unoccupied when they arrived. Or rather, she’d made it unoccupied.

The farmer hadn’t been too keen on visitors, and even less keen on handing over his property to a stranger with a shifty smile and a blaster behind her back. But things got violent, as they do. He tried to gut her with a farming tool. She shot him in the throat. It was a short negotiation.

The kid never asked where the farmer went. He just helped her drag the body into the woods and asked if they could keep the loth-cat that came with the barn.

She said yes. It bit her the next day.

She’d done a lot of things in her life.

Assassinations. Espionage. Slicing into blacksite servers, seducing corrupt senators, starting bar fights, finishing wars.

But nothing had prepared her for running a farm.

Nothing.

The equipment was older than some planets she’d been to. The power converters buzzed at night like they were haunted. One of the water tanks screamed every time you flushed the toilet. The crops didn’t grow right, mostly because she forgot to plant them in any kind of order. She tried eating something she thought was edible last week and spent two hours curled up next to the loth-cat vomiting and hallucinating moisture ghosts.

She was not thriving.

But the kid was.

He’d put on weight. Color came back into his cheeks. He laughed now. Asked her questions about the stars. Sat cross-legged on the porch with his eyes closed, humming softly, moving stones with his mind and smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She watched him from the porch sometimes.

And felt something awful bloom behind her ribs.

Attachment, she thought. Stupid.

Later that night, they sat under the stars on the porch steps, sipping warm synth-milk and watching the night bugs dance in the grass.

“You ever think about going back?” he asked, voice soft.

She didn’t look at him.

“Back where?”

He shrugged. “Where people are.”

She sighed, tilting her head back to look at the sky. The stars looked close tonight. Like she could pick one and climb inside it.

“I’ve never been great with people.”

“You like me.”

“…You’re barely people.”

He giggled, and she smirked. Then, after a pause—

“Do you think they’re still looking for us?” he asked.

The smile faded from her lips.

She didn’t have the heart to tell him yes.

That some of them never stopped.

She reached over and ruffled his hair instead. “We’ll be alright.”

For now.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.

Her planet. Under threat.

The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.

And she was not going to watch her world burn again.

She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.

The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.

“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”

Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.

Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.

“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”

“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”

Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.

The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.

Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.

She took a breath.

The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.

She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.

The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”

Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.

As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.

For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.

She felt like a commander again.

Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.

⸻

The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.

Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.

“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.

“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”

“No.”

The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”

“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”

“It’s sacred ground.”

Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”

Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.

“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.

“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”

“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”

“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.

“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”

Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.

The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”

“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.

“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.

She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”

Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”

“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”

Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.

She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.

She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.

Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.

Respect.

It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.

And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—

If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?

It disturbed him.

He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.

But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.

The trap was set.

From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.

She was a vision of history reborn.

General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.

“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.

Sniper bolts rained from above.

The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.

And then it broke.

A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.

The blast hit near the senator.

She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.

“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.

“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”

Her people faltered only for a moment.

Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.

From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.

It was something else.

The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.

And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.

Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.

Not here. Not again.

She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.

A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.

Too slow.

She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.

“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.

From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”

“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

He said nothing.

Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.

Trapped.

The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.

With something to protect.

She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.

They’d won.

The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.

Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.

“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.

Another pause.

Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”

⸻

The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.

Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.

The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.

Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.

The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.

Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.

She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.

“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”

“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”

She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”

“Correct.”

She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”

A pause.

“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”

“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”

He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:

“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”

She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”

“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”

She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.

“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”

He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—

“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”

“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”

The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”

The beeping started next.

Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.

“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.

She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.

“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”

She flicked water at it.

“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.

The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.

She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.

Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.

R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”

His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.

Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.

“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.

Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”

BANG.

A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.

“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”

The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”

“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”

“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”

Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”

“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”

“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.

The astromech let out a smug beep.

Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”

“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.

“You do,” the Senator stated.

The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”

Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.

She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

Directive Breach

Boss (Delta Squad) x Reader

Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l

⸻

The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.

“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.

You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”

He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”

“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”

“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.

Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.

“How bad’s your leg?”

“Fine.”

“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”

“You’re observant. I’m touched.”

“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”

“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”

“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”

His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.

And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t. You leaned in.

He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.

“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”

“Then make it count,” you whispered.

And he did.

⸻

The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.

⸻

“The Butcher and The Wolf” Pt.1

Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader

Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.

A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.

The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”

Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.

Karthuna: quick file

• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.

• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.

• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.

• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.

• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.

The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”

Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.

Psych‑profile excerpt

“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.

Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’

Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”

Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”

“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”

Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”

⸻

79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.

Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.

“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.

“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”

“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”

“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.

The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.

She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”

Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”

“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.

Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.

Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

“Credits to spice‑cakes.”

“She hasn’t told him?”

“Not a word.”

Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”

Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”

They clasped forearms on it.

The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.

When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.

“I don’t dance,” he protested.

“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”

She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.

At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.

“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”

He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”

“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”

Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”

“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”

⸻

Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.

“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”

As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”

“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.

“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.

⸻

Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.

She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”

His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”

Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.

⸻

Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.

A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.

The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.

“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.

The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”

[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”

“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”

Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.

“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”

[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”

“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”

A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”

“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”

She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”

He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.

Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.

TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”

A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”

She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”

TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”

“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”

The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.

[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”

TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”

“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”

⸻

Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.

—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.

TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.

“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”

R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.

At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.

“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.

Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”

Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.

“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.

Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.

Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”

Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.

“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”

Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.

Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.

The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.

Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”

⸻

Next Part

Commander Cody x Twi’lek Reader

The battle for Ryloth raged on, the skies above choked with smoke and the echoes of blaster fire. The clones fought valiantly, as they always did, but in the midst of the war, it was the civilians who suffered most. The Twi'leks were caught between the Separatists' relentless assault and the Republic's effort to free them.

Commander Cody, his distinctive armor marked with the colors of the 212th Attack Battalion, was in the thick of it, leading his troops through the war-torn streets. The noise of the battle was deafening, but he focused, always focused, as he barked orders and ensured his men stayed on task.

Then, in the midst of the chaos, he saw her.

A Twi'lek woman, her emerald skin marked with the familiar patterns of her people, stumbled in the open, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her lekku twitched nervously. She was no soldier—just a civilian, caught in the crossfire.

Without thinking, Cody sprinted toward her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to safety just as another volley of blaster fire whizzed past them. They ducked into the shadow of a nearby building, the sound of the battle muffled by the walls around them.

"Stay down," Cody ordered, his voice calm despite the chaos. His heart was racing, adrenaline flooding his veins, but his instincts were razor-sharp. "I'll make sure you're safe."

She nodded, her wide eyes still full of fear. She was clearly shaken, but her strength was evident. She wanted to run, to fight, but she knew she had no place in this war. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of blaster fire. "I—I don't know what I would've done without you."

Cody looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. There was something about her, something that tugged at him, but he didn't have time to think about it. There was a war to fight, and civilians needed to be protected.

He turned back toward his men, ensuring the area was clear before giving her a nod. "Stay close. I'll get you out of here."

But just as he stepped toward the street to lead her to safety, a distant explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Cody stumbled, pain shooting up his side as he fell to one knee, his vision swimming. He reached out, steadying himself, but the pain was too much.

"Commander!" she gasped, rushing to his side.

"I'm fine," he gritted through clenched teeth, but his body betrayed him, and he crumpled against the wall. Blood seeped through the cracks in his armor, a clear sign that he had been injured more seriously than he realized.

"No, you're not," she insisted, kneeling beside him. "Let me help you. Please."

Her eyes were full of concern, and something deeper—something warmer—flashed between them. It was a connection neither of them had expected but couldn't ignore. In the middle of the battle, amidst the destruction and death, there was only the two of them in this small corner of the world.

She pulled a medical kit from the pack she had slung over her shoulder, her hands steady as she worked to clean his wounds. Cody winced, but he remained quiet, letting her do what she could.

"You're a medic?" he asked, his voice strained but appreciative.

"No," she replied softly, applying pressure to his side. "Just someone who knows a little bit about surviving. I've had to learn." Her words were matter-of-fact, but there was something raw in her tone that made Cody's heart tighten.

Her hands were gentle, moving with care, as if she could heal not just his body but the war-torn world around them. It was a kindness, a rare gift in a universe filled with conflict, and Cody found himself entranced by the sincerity in her touch.

Once the worst of the bleeding had been stopped, she sat back, wiping the sweat from her brow. Cody caught his breath, the pain dulling but not entirely gone.

"You're a good woman," he said softly, his voice low, a hint of admiration in his words.

She smiled at him, though her eyes were full of uncertainty. "I'm just doing what needs to be done. It's the only way I can survive."

Cody's eyes softened as he gazed at her. He had been trained to fight, to lead, to be the soldier the Republic needed, but in this moment, all he wanted was to stay. To stay here with her, away from the war, even if only for a little while.

But duty called. And as the sounds of battle drew closer, Cody knew he had to go. He stood slowly, wincing at the pain in his side but determined.

"You need to get to safety," he said, his voice resolute. "It's not safe here."

She stood as well, her eyes sad but understanding. "I know. But... what about you? What happens to you?"

Cody gave a half-smile, despite the pain. "I'll be fine. I'll be with my men again soon enough."

She didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she stepped closer, looking up at him with a mixture of gratitude and something else. Something deeper.

Cody hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. In the midst of the war, in the middle of a planet torn apart by conflict, they were two people, bound by something greater than the galaxy around them.

Without thinking, he reached out and cupped her cheek gently. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. In that brief moment, time seemed to stand still.

And then, without a word, he leaned down, brushing his lips softly against hers. It was a kiss filled with everything they both couldn't say, everything that had built up between them in their short time together. It was tender, lingering, and full of all the things they couldn't share—*but* they did, in that fleeting moment.

When they pulled away, Cody's breath was unsteady, his heart racing, but he forced a smile. "Goodbye," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And thank you. For everything."

She smiled softly, a sad yet knowing expression crossing her face. "Goodbye, Commander," she replied, her voice steady. "Stay safe out there."

With one last glance, Cody turned and began to walk away, the pull of duty stronger than anything else. But as he disappeared into the distance, he couldn't shake the memory of her—her touch, her kiss, and the warmth in her eyes.

He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if they would ever meet again. But for a brief moment, amidst the chaos of war, he had found something that felt worth fighting for.

And that was enough.

---

i finished playing republic commando last week and just cannot stop thinking ab them

lock in? no. i’m locked out. please let me in. i promise im the real me and not my evil clone

“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

Captain Rex x Villager Reader

⸻

The mission went sideways—like most things involving General Skywalker.

The Republic cruiser got hit mid-orbit, forcing the 501st into a crash-landing they barely walked away from. Engines fried. Comms fried. Morale? Hanging on by a few snide remarks from Jesse and a sarcastic comment from Kix.

They hiked miles through jungle and shoreline until they stumbled across it: a sleepy little village tucked in a crescent of cliffs and coral. Sun-bleached stone homes. Palm trees bending in the breeze. Children with wide eyes and old souls.

And then... her.

The village welcomed them with food, drink, and curious smiles. The chief offered shelter. But Rex? Rex couldn't stop staring at the figure twirling barefoot on the sand.

You.

Clothes soaked to the knees, hair tangled with shells, a song on your lips and hands raised to the sky like you were conducting the clouds.

"Who's that?" Jesse muttered, nudging Rex.

One of the villagers chuckled. "That's her. Our ocean spirit. The crazy one."

"She always like this?" Kix asked.

"Always. She talks to the stars. Dances with the tide. Claims the Force whispers in her dreams."

"Right," Rex said flatly, trying very hard not to watch you pirouette through the foam.

⸻

You noticed him the second he stepped into the village.

Not because of the armor—everyone else had that.

But because of the weight on his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.

He was loud in his stillness. Something broken beneath all that discipline. And you... well, you liked broken things. They had better stories.

So naturally, you made it your mission to get under his skin.

The first time, you startled him by hanging upside down from a tree branch as he walked by. "You're a soldier, but you move like someone who wants peace," you said, grinning. "What a strange contradiction."

He blinked up at you. "What?"

You dropped beside him, barefoot and beaming. "You've got stars in your chest, Captain. Ever let 'em out?"

He stared.

Then turned to Jesse and muttered, "She's weirder up close."

⸻

You danced along the edges of his days.

Offered him woven seashell charms ("For luck."). Sang to him in the mornings ("For clarity."). Told him stories about planets that didn't exist, and beasts made of shadow and seafoam.

At first, he humored you. Called you "eccentric." Maybe a little unhinged.

But over time, when the others laughed—when Anakin smirked and Jesse nudged him—Rex stopped joining in. He started listening. Watching.

You'd talk to the ocean and hum lullabies to fish. You'd draw in the sand and claim it was from a vision. You'd call him "Captain Sunshine" and pretend not to notice how his lips twitched every time.

But the turning point?

It came the night you found him staring at the stars, quiet and heavy.

You sat beside him without asking.

"There's something about you," you said softly. "Like the Force wrapped a storm in armor."

Rex didn't speak. But his hand was still when you placed yours over it.

"You think I'm mad," you whispered, "but the truth is—I've just seen too much. And maybe... maybe I see you too."

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

And for the first time, he didn't see "the village crazy."

He saw you.

⸻

From then on, he started lingering.

He'd listen to your stories.

He'd walk with you on the shore.

He'd steal glances when you danced in the moonlight—shirt soaked, hair wild, joy uncontained.

His men noticed.

So did Skywalker.

"You know she's probably kissed a krayt dragon or something, right?" Anakin teased one evening.

"She said it kissed her," Jesse corrected.

Rex only grunted. But later that night, when you sat beside him by the fire and handed him a shell—"It's for courage," you said—he didn't laugh.

He kept it.

Right there, tucked beneath his chest plate, next to his heart.

⸻

The moonlight filtered through the palm trees, casting silver streaks across the soft sand. The air was warm, a gentle breeze ruffling your hair as you sat with Rex on the quiet beach. His armor, normally so rigid and sharp, lay discarded in a pile beside him. His shoulders were relaxed—more than they had been in days.

For the first time, there was no mission. No enemy. Just the two of you, the waves, and the stars.

You were humming a tune that had no words—just the melody carried by the wind. You always sang when you felt alive. And tonight, you felt alive. There was something in the air, something that shifted between the two of you.

You glanced over at Rex, who had his gaze fixed on the horizon, his arms resting loosely on his knees.

"You know," you began, your voice quieter than usual, "I've been thinking."

He turned his head slightly to look at you, but didn't say anything. You could feel the weight of his attention on you, even without him speaking.

"You're always so serious," you continued, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "I think it's time I gave you a new name. Something that suits you better than 'Captain Sunshine.'"

He raised an eyebrow, but there was a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I told you to stop calling me that."

You grinned, leaning your head on your knees. "But it fits! You're always so bright, even when you try to be grumpy."

"I'm not grumpy," he muttered.

"Sure you're not," you teased. "How about 'Captain Gloomy' then?"

He laughed, a rare, deep sound that made your heart skip. But it was only for a moment before he grew quiet again.

"You know, I don't mind the nickname," Rex said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than usual. "I just..." He cleared his throat, then looked at you, his blue eyes soft under the moonlight. "I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of walking joke."

Your smile faded, replaced with a warmth that bubbled in your chest. You reached over and took his hand, resting it in your own.

"Rex," you said, your voice low and sincere. "I don't think you're a joke. And I don't call you 'Captain Sunshine' to make fun of you. It's because you shine, even when you don't know it. You've been through so much, but you still manage to have a light in you. It's... rare."

For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then he squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken. Something neither of you were ready to say yet.

But for the first time in weeks, Rex didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned in, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence.

"Stop calling me 'Captain Sunshine,'" he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place. "Call me Rex."

You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of it. Rex. He wanted you to call him by his name. Not by rank. Not by some distant title. Just Rex.

And you smiled.

"Okay... Rex."

⸻

The next morning, the peaceful rhythm of village life was shattered.

You were on the shore, as usual—your feet in the water, your hands lifting to the sky as you hummed to the wind. But something was different today. The ocean felt... wrong. The waves rolled with a strange intensity, crashing against the rocks with too much force.

You stood still, listening to the sound of the water. The whispers came to you, as they often did. But this time, they were louder. Urgent.

Something's coming. Something dark.

A chill ran down your spine. You felt it deep in your bones. It wasn't the Force, not really. You couldn't wield it the way the Jedi could. But you felt it—this impending darkness. The kind of thing that stirred in your gut and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You rushed into the village, seeking out the chief. You found him in the square, talking to some of the villagers.

"Chief!" You grabbed his arm, your breath quickening. "The ocean is angry. Something is coming. You need to prepare."

The chief looked at you, brow furrowed. "You're rambling again. The ocean is just the ocean."

"But the water—" you began, your hands trembling. "The waves—there's something wrong! It's not just the ocean. It's everything."

He shook his head. "You've always been a little... eccentric. The villagers are afraid of you, but we've never had a problem. Don't stir up fear."

Your chest tightened. No one believed you. Again.

You turned away from him, running towards Rex, Skywalker, and the others, desperate to make them understand.

But even as you spoke to Rex, the worry clear in your voice, he shook his head, not fully understanding. "You're being cryptic again, [Y/N]. We can't just go around acting on every... feeling you have. We need to focus on finding a way off this planet."

"You don't understand," you said, grabbing his arm. "You have to listen to me, Rex. The Force... something's coming. I can feel it. We're not safe here."

Rex's gaze softened for a moment, but there was a stubbornness in him that wouldn't let go. "You're not crazy, but we can't just assume the worst. We're in a safe place."

As if on cue, the first explosion rocked the village.

⸻

The Separatists came from the cliffs, their droid army descending in waves.

The village, so peaceful just hours before, was now a battlefield. The village chief scrambled to rally the villagers, but it was clear they weren't prepared for what was happening. Panic spread like wildfire. Children screamed. Elders tried to hide.

Rex and the 501st were quick to action, weapons drawn, taking position around the village. But the fight was chaotic. Too chaotic. And despite his skill, Rex couldn't shake the feeling that you had been right.

That something was wrong. That something was coming.

And when he looked back to find you, his heart dropped. You weren't by the water anymore. You were in the center of it all—trying to calm the villagers, trying to do something, but you were alone.

You weren't a Jedi, but your connection to the planet and the Force—it had always been there. But now, it was stronger than ever.

But the village was under attack, and Rex—he would do anything to keep you safe. Anything.

⸻

The ground trembled beneath your feet as the first explosion reverberated across the beach, sending the villagers scattering in panic. You had felt it before, but now it was undeniable—the feeling that something was horribly wrong. The droid army had descended without warning, their cold, mechanical clanking filling the air as they stormed through the village.

Rex's sharp voice cut through the chaos. "Form up! Secure the perimeter!" His orders were precise, but even he couldn't ignore the panic that was building. The Separatists had come out of nowhere—this was no mere skirmish. This was an invasion.

You were in the thick of it, dodging through the scrambling villagers, trying to usher the children into the village huts. Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct telling you to run—run far away—but you couldn't. Not when you felt the waves of darkness closing in.

The Force was alive in you now—alive and screaming. You had never experienced anything like this before. There was something wrong about the way the droids moved. It was as if they had a plan—a deeper purpose. And in the center of it all, you could feel a dark presence, one that made your chest tighten with fear.

You tried to keep your cool, but it was hard. It was hard when you saw Rex, the man you had come to care for, pushing through the village with his brothers, cutting down droids left and right. You wanted to warn him, to tell him to stop, to listen to the warning bells ringing in your soul.

But you were just the village "crazy." What could you say? Who would listen?

⸻

Rex was fighting alongside the rest of the 501st, but his eyes never strayed far from you. He knew you weren't helpless—he knew that. But seeing you caught in the middle of the battle, guiding the villagers to safety, made his heart race in a way he couldn't explain. His usual stoic focus slipped, his movements sharper, more desperate as the battle intensified.

"[Y/N]!" he called out, pushing through a group of battle droids to reach you. "Get to cover!"

You didn't move, your eyes scanning the battlefield, your hands raised as if trying to push the tides themselves back. Your breath was shallow, your mind working overtime to sense the next wave of danger. You felt the air shift—they were coming. But they weren't the droids.

A blinding flash of blaster fire exploded nearby, and Rex's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you behind a nearby hut for cover.

"Stay down!" he shouted, crouching beside you, his voice fierce, desperate. He was holding onto you tightly—too tightly, almost as if he thought letting go would mean losing you.

You caught your breath, staring at him, your hand still on his arm as if grounding yourself. The connection was stronger than ever, but there was nothing you could do but feel.

"I—Rex..." You struggled to find words. "There's something else. Not just droids. Something darker."

He shook his head, his face set with determination. "You're not going through this alone. We're getting you out of here."

But it was too late.

The battle intensified. More droids came flooding into the village, backed by a squad of heavily armored battle droids. You felt it—the pull of the darkness, tightening its grip around your chest. The very air seemed to grow thick with danger.

The droids were growing stronger by the minute. The battle outside was escalating, and the villagers had nowhere to run. You felt the heavy presence of Skywalker's power drawing closer, but you couldn't bring yourself to move. Rex had his orders. He was focused on defending the villagers, but in the pit of your stomach, you knew—if something wasn't done, this battle would turn into something much worse.

But then, everything stopped.

The unmistakable sound of blaster fire and screeching engines tore through the air. Anakin Skywalker.

"Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, Rex!" Skywalker's voice crackled through the comms. The roar of his ship's engines echoed as he barreled through the droid lines, his starfighter tearing through the air, blasting droids out of the sky with precision.

"I knew you'd show up," Rex muttered, a grin creeping onto his face despite the chaos. "Where have you been?"

"Just finishing off a few stragglers!" Skywalker's voice came back with a mischievous chuckle, as his ship soared overhead, dropping bombs and causing explosions in its wake. He was pulling the droid forces back.

The Separatists were retreating, forced to deal with the new wave of attacks from the air and ground.

Rex glanced back at you, his blue eyes full of concern. "We need to move now. They're still coming."

With Skywalker's timely intervention, the tide of battle had shifted. The 501st took advantage of the confusion caused by Skywalker's precision strikes, their assault growing fiercer. It wasn't just the droids that were retreating—Skywalker's presence had thrown them off balance, leaving the droid army scrambling for cover.

The villagers, assisted by the 501st, rallied together to get the wounded to safety. The battle raged on, but the droids were systematically wiped out. It wasn't a clean victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Finally, after the dust settled, you stood on the beach, your eyes still searching the horizon. You could feel the last traces of Skywalker's energy dissipating, his presence fading from the air. The village was safe—for now—but the cost had been heavy.

The 501st was preparing to leave. Skywalker had repaired his starfighter—patched up and fueled as best as he could with what limited resources the village had. His unorthodox heroics had cleared the sky, and now, it was time to go.

Rex stood beside you, silent for a moment, his hand resting on the hilt of his blaster. "We've got to go," he said, his voice soft.

You nodded, your heart heavy. You knew this was coming—the goodbye.

You looked up at him, trying to find the words. But there was only one thing you could say.

"You're going back to the fight," you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion.

Rex nodded, his gaze shifting downward for a moment before meeting yours again. "It's my job. It's what I'm good at."

You smiled softly, even though it hurt. "I know." Your fingers brushed his, and for a fleeting moment, the world stood still between you two.

Rex hesitated. There was something in his eyes now, something deeper than the soldier he had always been. He took a step closer, his hand reaching for yours. "Come with us. There's always a place for you with the 501st."

You shook your head gently, your heart aching with the decision. "No, Rex. You belong out there, with them. This is where I need to be. This is my home."

He looked at you for a long time, his gaze tender and filled with an unspoken understanding. "I'll never forget you, [Y/N]."

"I know," you whispered.

You pulled away, taking a deep breath. "Goodbye, Rex."

And as he turned to leave, you couldn't help but feel that your connection—this strange, beautiful bond between you—would remain. Even across the stars.

Rex glanced back one last time, his helmet under his arm, his eyes full of regret and something else—something you couldn't name. But then he was gone, heading to the shuttle with his brothers, disappearing into the sky.

And you stood on the shore, watching the stars shimmer in the distance, knowing that, just maybe, you would always feel that pull toward him. Across time, across galaxies, and even the darkness that threatened to divide them.

The Force, it seemed, had a way of bringing souls together—if only for a little while.