“Vertical Evac”
“Vertical Evac”
Sev x Reader
The Senate landing pad still stank of charred durasteel when the four commandos in Katarn armor strode out of the dawn mist. Boots hit duracrete in perfect cadence, and every aide around you startled, skittering out of their way like spooked tookas.
The one in the center stopped in front of you.
“Senator,” the vocoder rasped, calm as a metronome, “Delta Squad assumes your protection detail.”
You’d asked for one discreet guard after the Separatist torpedoes punched holes in your shuttle last night. Instead you’d been delivered a miniature shock battalion.
“I requested subtle,” you said dryly, sweeping your gaze over identical T‑visors. “Instead I’ve been issued four portable war crimes.”
A bark of laughter crackled through the comms. The clone on the left—armor scorched black at the shoulders—tapped two fingers to his helmet. “Portable war crime, that’s a new one, Senator. I’m Scorch. Demo expert. You break it, I blow it.”
“Stand down, Scorch,” the leader murmured. “I’m Boss. These are Fixer and Sev.”
The tallest—Sev—inclined his helmet a millimeter. “We’ll try not to stain the carpets.”
You almost smiled.
⸻
Your suite looked less like a workspace and more like a forward operating base. Scorch crawled through the ceiling vents, humming while he tucked micro‑det charges behind every ornate sconce. Fixer was wrist‑deep in the security terminal, ripping out obsolete boards and muttering about “code that predates the Jedi Order.” Boss paced, mapping angles of fire that only a clone commando would notice.
Sev took the window.
He didn’t move, didn’t even sway—just stood with the DC‑17m sniper attachment snug against his shoulder, visor tracking the boulevard five stories below.
You returned from the kitchenette with a tray of caf. “I assume troopers run on caffeine the way senators run on spite.”
Fixer declined with a grunt. Scorch popped down from a vent to snag two cups—one for himself, one he tried to hand to Sev by clinking the rim against the sniper’s elbow. Sev accepted without breaking sight‑line.
“Thanks,” he muttered. The voice behind the filter was low, gravel under ice.
You leaned against the sill beside him. “How long can you stare at traffic before you see stars?”
“Long as it takes.”
“Healthy.”
He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh. “Health is secondary. Mission first.”
Your lips twitched. “Let’s keep them aligned, Trooper.”
He finally turned his head. The visor reflected your own weary expression. “Call me Sev.”
“So,” you ventured, “Sev. What’s that actually short for? Your brothers keep calling you ‘Oh‑Seven.’ ”
A low rasp filtered through his vocoder. “Serial: RC‑1207. Clones don’t waste syllables—turns into ‘Zero‑Seven,’ then ‘Sev.’ Vau tried to rename me once—Strill‑bait—but Sev stuck.”
“Efficient,” you mused. “I was hoping for something poetic.”
“Closest thing to poetry we got,” he answered, “was Sergeant Walon Vau reading after‑action reports aloud and marking every missed shot in red. I preferred numbers.”
You huffed a laugh. “Numbers never filibuster.”
“Exactly.” He tipped the caf under his helmet, then added with a shrug you felt more than saw: “Still, seven isn’t a bad omen. Seven Geonosian snipers on my first real op. They’re the stripes.”
Your gaze dipped to the dried‑maroon slashes across his plate. Those kills were in the official record—no campfire exaggeration, just Sev doing Sev. “Better trophy than a Senate commendation,” you said.
“Commendations don’t stop blaster bolts,” he agreed. “Armor paint might. Enemies aim for the bright bit.”
“Note to self—add high‑visibility stripes to every lobbyist I want removed.”
He chuckled, deep and short. “You handle it with speeches, I handle it with DC charges. Same outcome; mine’s louder.”
The ceiling vent banged open and Scorch—all riot‑yellow hazard marks—dropped in upside‑down. “Louder? Did someone say louder? Because I have a three‑det primer that’ll make democracy sing.”
Sev kept his rifle steady, unamused. “You done wiring the vents?”
“Finished! Whole place is a merry little grave waiting to happen.” Scorch swung like a loth‑monkey. “What’s the banter—numerology and murder? Count me in. My favorite number’s forty‑seven—arms, legs, whatever’s left.”
Fixer snapped from the terminal, voice flat. “Scorch, your ‘festive’ cabling is shorting the main feed. Touch another conductor and I’ll teach you binary via blunt‑force trauma.”
“Harsh love, Fix.” Scorch saluted invertedly…and clipped a coil. Screens died, lights cut; the building’s distant alarm groaned awake.
Pen‑light clicked—Sev’s, white beam spearing the dark. “Stay with me, Senator.” He toggled comms. “Boss, primary’s down in the principal’s suite—unknown cause, probably Scorch.”
Boss answered, calm and clipped. “Assume breach until proven Scorch Error. Fixer: backups. Scorch: vent lockdown. Sev, keep the package intact.”
“Copy.” Sev shifted, square in front of you. Above, Scorch’s grin hovered in the torch.
“Bright side,” Scorch quipped, “if hostiles come now, they won’t see the scorch marks!”
“Touch that wire again,” Fixer warned in the dark, “and the next blackout’s permanent—for you.”
The auxiliary kicked in; light flooded back. Scorch fled up the duct, chastened but humming. Boss appeared in the doorway, orange visor band bright.
“Clear. Scorch is off det‑detail,” he declared.
Sev’s low chuckle rumbled. “Discipline, Delta‑style.”
You toasted him with the caf. “To functional anarchy. First amendment: electrified committee chairs.”
He gave a tiny nod. “Second amendment: motion passes with high‑explosive majority.”
A distant “I CAN SUPPLY THOSE” echoed from the shaft.
Side‑by‑side at the window, you both let the city’s neon river roll past, sharing bruised humor and the mutual certainty that, whatever happened next, you’d handle it—whether by votes or by very precise blaster fire.
⸻
Sleep never really came. You were half‑draped across a stack of datapads when every pane of transparisteel in the lounge shattered inward at once—a prismatic roar of sound and stinging air.
A glare‑white projectile streaked through the breach, thunked against the far wall, and bloomed into a spiderweb of crackling ion static. Lights died. Grav‑conduits hiccupped. Gravity itself seemed to wobble.
“Contact, east aspect—breach charges and ion!” Boss’s voice snapped from the darkness, all business. He’d been on silent watch in the corridor.
Sev materialised out of the gloom between you and the ruined window, rifle already hot. “Droid jump‑squad—minimum six. Senator, with me.”
You barely had time to register the whirring hiss of BX‑series commando droids vaulting the balcony rail before Sev’s gauntlet closed around your forearm.
Boss kicked the apartment’s panic door open with enough force to shear its hinges, emergency chemlights flickering along his orange‑striped armour.
“Fixer, Scorch—status?” he barked into squad‑comms while shoving a palm‑sized beacon into your hand. An amber arrow blinked on its surface: PROX‑CODE DELTA.
“Dining area’s a toaster, Boss. I’m boxed—two droids.”
“Vent shafts compromised—make that three,” Scorch added, laughing like it was Life Day.
“Hold and delay,” Boss ordered. “We’re exfil Alpha with the principal.”
Sev herded you down the service hall, DC‑17m coughing scarlet bolts that popped droid skulls as they rounded corners. A ricochet sizzled past your ear; you felt the heat, smelled scorched upholstery.
“Keep your head ducked,” he growled. “That helmet budget of yours is still pending.”
You shot back, breathless, “Filed under agricultural subsidies—nobody reads those.”
“Smart.” He clipped a spare vibroblade from his thigh and pressed it into your palm. “If it comes to close‑quarters—stab the gap at the jaw hinge.”
“Charming bedside manner, Sev.”
“Better than a funeral eulogy.”
The maintenance lift doors yawned open—just in time to reveal the empty shaft beyond. Gravity stabilisers flickered; wind howled up the vertical tunnel.
Boss lobbed a glow‑stick; it spiralled downward, showing two hundred metres of nothing before emergency nets. “Main lift’s offline. We rappel.”
A cable launcher thunked against the upper frame. Sev snapped the line to your belt, then to his own. “Clip in and step off on my count. Boss goes first.”
Blaster‑fire rattled down the corridor—Fixer’s voice on comms: “Third droid down, corridor secure.”
“Copy, Fix,” Boss replied. Then to you, calm and steady: “Three… two… one.” He vanished over the edge.
Sev guided you after him. The world flipped; you were suddenly running down a wall of permacrete, black void on either side, cable humming overhead. You focused on Boss’s glowing armour below, and on Sev’s hand firm between your shoulder blades.
Halfway down, a BX droid leaned out a blown‑open access door and fired upward. The cable near your hip sparked.
Sev twisted mid‑descent, rifle spitting crimson. The droid’s chest plate caved; it pinwheeled into darkness.
“Cable integrity?” Boss called.
“Nominal,” Sev grunted. To you: “Still with me?”
“Not filing that helmet request after all,” you gasped.
“Good. Would’ve been a waste of paperwork.”
Boots hit deck plating beside Boss. An auxiliary hangar gaped before you—service speeders, loading cranes, and, at the far end, a battered LAAT/i gunship painted civilian grey.
Boss punched the hatch codes. “Borrowing that. Scorch, Fixer—vector to my beacon.”
Scorch: “Roger—bringing the fireworks!”
Fixer: “And the repair bill.”
Sev swept the bay, visor pinging heat‑sigs. “Two more droids on the gantry.”
“I’ll drive,” you said, surprising yourself.
Sev angled his helmet. “Can you?”
“Committee on Combat Logistics. I made sure senators kept their pilot’s certs current.”
Boss tossed you the cockpit datakey. “Then fly it like you filibuster—fast and ruthless.”
⸻
The gunship thundered out of the sub‑level exit just as Scorch vaulted aboard, demo‑satchel first, Fixer broken‑armed behind him. Sev slammed the side hatch; Boss took the troop bay guns.
City lights blurred past. Sirens dopplered below. Somewhere behind, your shattered apartment flickered with fresh explosions—Scorch’s parting gift.
Sev crouched beside the cockpit, shoulder braced against the bulkhead. “Secondary safe‑house is eighteen klicks. We’ll clear traffic for you.”
You tightened your grip on the yoke. “Appreciate it. Next housing allowance better cover blast windows.”
“That, or we install the windows we like—three metres thick, transparisteel.” His tone was almost light. “Adds character.”
You glanced back, met his visor. “And here I thought I was the expensive one in this arrangement.”
“Worth every credit, Senator,” he said—and for the first time you heard a smile in RC‑1207’s gravelled voice.
Outside, the dawn line crept over Coruscant’s horizon—crimson, like Sev’s war‑paint—while Delta Squad regrouped in the hold, bruised but intact. The war would send more droids, more nights like this, but for now you flew toward the rising light, the commando’s words lingering like an unspoken promise.
⸻
The scarlet bloom of predawn still clung to Sev’s visor as Delta Squad escorted you across the durasteel bridgeway toward the Sienar Senatorial Cutter waiting in docking cradle G‑43.
You’d only decided an hour ago—papers signed, aide‑team recalled—that it was time to go home: to the domed foundries of your world, to the committees that actually listened. Coruscant could keep its marble tombs.
Fixer had already swept the cutter’s nav‑core; Scorch grumbled that the fuel cells were “too clean, suspiciously sober.” Boss, always by the datapad, had plotted the twenty‑six‑hour jump. Sev walked at your left flank, rifle slung but senses wired tight.
“I still think the Senate Medical Board could clear you in two days,” he said through the vocoder, voice low.
“And I think if I stay two days more, the war will veto me permanently.” You managed a wry smile. “Besides, your safe‑house couch is murderous on the lumbar.”
“Could requisition a better couch.”
“You’d blow it up for target practice.”
“Fair.”
A claxon whooped overhead, routine pre‑launch. Hangar crews gave thumbs‑up as they sealed the cutter’s boarding ramp, crimson Republic insignia catching the light.
Scorch jogged back from the refuel pylon, yellow armor bright against the grey deck. “All green—ship’s thirstier than a cadet, but she’s topped.”
Boss nodded. “Mount up. We launch in eleven.”
You rested a hand on the cool hull, exhaled. Going home. For the first time in weeks, the knot behind your ribs loosened.
A muffled whump—more vibration than sound—rippled underfoot. You frowned; Sev’s helmet snapped toward the cutter. An instant later a second, deeper concussion rolled across the ring. Cries echoed; deck crew scattered.
Sev’s shout hit like blaster fire: “DOWN!”
He tackled you behind a cargo skid just as the Senatorial Cutter blossomed into white‑hot shrapnel. The blast‑wave hammered the gangway, ripping durasteel like foil. Chunks of hull screamed overhead, flaming arcs against the pale sky.
Boss’s orders barked through squad‑comms—“Perimeter! Trawl for secondaries!”—even as Fixer dragged a stunned tech from the collapsing ramp. Scorch ran straight into the haze, thermal scanner up, searching for unexploded ordnance.
Your ears rang. Liquid fire licked the wreck thirty meters away; atmosphere pull whipped the flames sideways until emergency force‑screens slammed down.
Sev’s weight still covered you, armour shielding against stray shards. Heat washed over the two of you; the copper tang of scorched electronics filled your lungs.
He leaned close, voice pitched for your ears only. “Senator, you all right?”
Heart hammering, you forced a nod. “Yes.” The word came thin. “Our ship—”
“Gone,” he said, absolute. “Someone timed a shaped charge for pre‑board.”
You felt the knot snap tight again—rage this time, not fear. “That hangar was Level Three clearance. Only Republic personnel.”
“Or someone wearing their code cylinder.” Sev’s visor reflected the inferno. “Saboteur’s still out there.”
Fire‑suppression foam oozed from ceiling vents; med‑droids hissed down the smoke‑curtains. Boss herded survivors past you, every gesture clipped, professional.
“Saboteur planted thermal baradium in the starboard fuel neck,” Fixer reported, one gauntlet cradling his bandaged arm. “Timed off the pressure equaliser—no remote signal.”
Scorch skidded up, visor flecked with soot. “Found partial detonator casing. Separatist‑pattern, but tractable.”
Boss looked to you. “Senator, the ring isn’t secure. I recommend immediate extraction to Defender‑class corvette Vigilant—Command has a cabin we can hard‑seal.”
You opened your mouth—I still have to reach my planet—but Sev cut across gently, “Your world can wait eight more hours. You can’t if there’s a second bomber.”
You met his visor, saw your own shaken reflection. A breath in, out. “Corvette it is.”
The Vigilant detached from the ring on emergency vector, hyperdrives spooling. Through the small viewport the docking cradle burned, a smear of smoke against the stratosphere.
You sat on a cot, jacket singed, palms trembling. Sev posted at the door, Boss conferring with the bridge. Fixer typed one‑handed at a forensic padd; Scorch fussed, pulling charred slivers from his pauldrons.
“You know the irony,” Scorch called across the room, irrepressible even now. “Hangars scare me more than battlefields. Too many things that go ‘boom’ when they’re supposed to behave.”
Fixer grunted. “Statistically still safer than letting you cook ration bars.”
You managed a weak laugh, rubbing temples. “Gentlemen, please—one trauma at a time.”
Sev stepped forward, offered a flask of electrolyte water. “Sip slowly.”
You obeyed, then asked, “Anyone else hurt?”
“Minor burns only,” Boss answered, approaching. “But the Separatists just escalated. Cutter’s manifest leaked thirty minutes ago—only a very short list knew you’d leave today.”
“Which means,” Sev finished, “there’s a mole in Republic logistics.”
Silence pressed in, broken by the corvette’s hyperdrive howl—the stars outside stretched to lines.
You set the flask aside, straightened. “So we find them.”
Boss inclined his helmet. “That’s the plan.”
Sev’s voice dropped, meant only for you. “And until we do, no transports. No public schedules. We move when we control every variable.”
A beat. Then you asked, quietly fierce, “Does that include better couches?”
The sniper’s helmet tipped, the faintest nod. “And blast windows thick enough for a rancor.”
Despite everything—the smoke, the dead crew, the gut‑deep dread—you felt a spark of something steadier than fear. Delta had you. And you weren’t done fighting.
Outside, hyperspace opened like a blue fracture, swallowing the Vigilant—but not the promise Sev had made, soft as a sniper’s breath: They’d failed to kill you twice. Third time would never come.
⸻
The Vigilant slipped into hyperspace hours ago, but sleep never boarded with the rest of you.
When the muted corridor lights dimmed for ship‑night, you found yourself drifting—restless—until the muffled clank of a familiar gait guided your steps.
Most racks were dark, humming behind containment fields, yet one bench lamp burned low. Sev sat there, helmet off, the harsh light carving shadows along the scar that split his right temple. He was field‑stripping the DC‑17m with the same care a jeweler gives crystal.
You halted at the threshold. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
Crimson eyes flicked up—tired, alert, softening when they found you. “Blaster lubricant’s cheaper than sedatives.”
You ventured closer, palms tucked in your sleeves to hide the tremor still living there. “I wanted to thank you. You put yourself between me and—” You gestured at empty air that smelled faintly of ionized smoke. “Everything.”
He reassembled the last actuator, set the rifle aside. “That’s the job.”
“I know when duty ends and choice begins.” You lowered onto the next bench. “Saving me was duty. Staying here polishing gun parts at three a.m.—that’s choice.”
For a moment the only sound was the distant thrum of hyperdrive coils. Sev’s gaze dropped to your hands. “You’re still shaking.”
“Adrenaline’s a stubborn tenant.”
He reached into a med‑pouch, produced a flat stim patch. “Cortical calmative. Won’t knock you out—just tells the nerves the shooting’s done.”
You accepted it, hesitated. “Could put it on my own neck, but I imagine you’re more precise.”
His expression did something rare—softened into a hint of a smile. He peeled the backing, brushed your hair aside with surprising gentleness, and pressed the patch below your ear. Heat bloomed, then a slow coolness spread through muscle and marrow alike.
“Better?” he asked, thumb lingering against your pulse as if counting the beats to be sure.
“Getting there.” You studied the scar on his temple—white against tan skin, the kind Kamino med‑droids never fully erased. “Geonosis?”
He nodded once. “Turret ricochet. Left a mark. Reminds me to keep my head down.”
“You kept mine down today.”
A silence stretched, warm instead of awkward, until he said, low: “When the cutter blew, time slowed. Thought—if that’s the last thing I do, it’s enough.”
Your breath hitched. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” His hand dropped to the bench between you, open‑palmed—an invitation without expectation.
You laid your fingers across his. Armor‑calloused knuckles felt like forged durasteel, but the grip he returned was careful, almost reverent.
“I’m glad,” you whispered, “that ‘enough’ didn’t end there.”
His lips curved—a small, earnest thing. “Me too, cyar’ika.” The Mandalorian endearment slipped out before he caught it; color touched his cheeks. “Sorry”.
“Don’t be.” You squeezed his hand. “I speak fluent subtext.”
From the passageway came Scorch’s distant voice complaining about ration bars; somewhere Fixer muttered diagnostics. But inside the armory a hush settled—two steady heartbeats, the scent of cleaning solvent, the promise of unexploded tomorrows.
Sev reclaimed his rifle, but his other hand never left yours. “Stay a while. The patch works better with company.”
You leaned your shoulder to his, felt the tremor finally subside, and decided the armory was, for tonight, the safest place in the galaxy.
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
Title: Good Looking
Hunter x Reader
⸻
The cantina flickered with low, golden light. One of those places where time didn’t move right—where music played like a memory, and everyone spoke a little softer after dark.
You sat on the edge of a cracked booth, legs stretched, nursing a cheap drink you weren’t really drinking. Your armor was off, your hair a mess, and there was still grime on your hands from the skirmish earlier that day. You should’ve been back at the ship, cleaning up or passing out. But you weren’t.
Because he was still here.
Hunter leaned against the bar, arms crossed, talking quietly to the bartender. His bandana was off for once, letting those wild curls fall free around his face. He looked tired—always did—but he still stood like he carried the weight of everyone else’s safety before his own. That kind of burden was its own kind of beauty.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he turned and caught you.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Eventually, he walked over. Sat across from you without asking, sliding into the cracked booth like it had always been meant for two.
“You okay?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Still got all my limbs.”
He smirked. “That’s a start.”
You studied him under the flickering cantina lights. He was always so composed in battle, so sharp, so focused. But like this, up close and quiet, there was something softer behind his eyes. Something a little tired. A little lonely.
“You’re always looking after everyone else,” you said suddenly, voice low. “Who looks after you?”
Hunter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He looked down, then back at you with a small, dry laugh. “You know… I don’t really think about it.”
“You should.”
You reached out and brushed a thumb across his knuckles—just once, just enough.
He didn’t flinch.
“You’re good looking when you’re not pretending to be indestructible,” you murmured. The words slipped out like a secret.
Hunter tilted his head, smile crooked, eyes watching you like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming or if he just hadn’t let himself want this before.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said.
You held his gaze. “A little. But I’d say it sober.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice low and gravelly. “Then say it again.”
You felt your breath hitch, just a little.
“You’re good looking, Hunter,” you said. “But I think I like you even more when you let yourself feel.”
A beat passed. Two. He looked down at your hand, still near his. Then he reached for it—gently, carefully, like something fragile in a war-torn world.
“I think I feel too much when I’m around you,” he said. “And that scares me more than battle ever could.”
You didn’t answer. Just let the silence sit between you—heavy, intimate, real.
The music kept playing. The world outside kept spinning. But for now, it was just the two of you, sitting across from each other like the war had paused. Like the night belonged to people who’d been scarred, and tired, and still dared to want something more.
Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️
“First‑Name Basis”
Kix x Reader
Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.
A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”
Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”
From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”
You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”
Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.
You pointed down the line:
“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.
“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”
“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”
Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.
Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”
“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”
A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”
Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”
Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”
“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.
Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”
⸻
Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”
“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”
His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”
Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”
Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”
You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”
Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”
Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”
⸻
Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.
Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”
“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.
Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.
Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”
You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.
Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”
Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”
And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.
“Collateral Morals” pt.1
Commander Thorn x Senator!Reader
The Senate chamber was a palace of marble and double-speak.
Your voice cut through it like a vibroblade.
“I will not stay silent while the Republic condemns slavery in the same breath it sends engineered men to die nameless in another system’s dust!”
Murmurs rippled. Eyes narrowed. A few senators visibly flinched.
“I will not—cannot—stand by while the Republic claps itself on the back for dismantling slavery on one hand and sends the clone army to their deaths with the other.”
You continued, stepping away from the podium, unshaken despite the weight of every eye trained on you.
“We decry the Zygerians, the Hutts, the slavers of the outer rim—but we justify the manufacturing of a living, breathing people because they wear our uniform and die for our cause.”
There was a stillness in the room now. Even the usual side-chatter had ceased.
You weren’t drunk. Not now. Not here.
You were righteous. Unapologetic. You were chaos in silk, fire behind a senator’s seal.
“They are not tools. They are not assets. They are men. We claim moral superiority while deploying an engineered slave force across the galaxy. We praise the courage of the clones while denying them names, futures, choices.”
A few senators whispered among themselves. Bail Organa looked grim. Mon Mothma’s hands were clasped in silent support. But others—the loyalists, the corporate-backed, the status quo—were already sharpening their rebuttals.
You stared them down.
“The clones are not our property. And if we continue to treat them as such, the Republic is not the democracy we pretend it is.”
You bowed your head. “That’s all.”
And you walked off the podium to the thunderous silence of a room unsure whether to cheer or crucify you.
⸻
You returned to your apartment, dimly lit, your shoes discarded at the door, and your shoulder already aching from tension and too many political threats disguised as advice.
You poured a drink—nothing fancy—and leaned against your balcony rail, staring at the neon jungle below.
“You did good,” you murmured to yourself. “Or at least, you told the truth.”
You raised your glass. “To inconvenient truths.”
That’s when the glass shattered.
You froze. A second bolt followed, scorching the edge of your balcony railing.
Sniper.
You dropped to the floor just as a third bolt zipped over your head, and crawled behind the couch, heart hammering. Your comm was somewhere in your bag across the room. The lights flickered. You could hear movement. Someone was in the apartment.
A shadow shifted across the floor.
Then—crash.
A body slammed through the window behind you, and you screamed, scrabbling backward as the intruder raised a blaster.
But before he could fire—Three red bolts tore through the assassin’s chest.
You blinked, stunned, as the armored figure that followed stepped over the body and into your apartment like the chaos meant nothing.
Crimson armor. Sharp as a blade. Helmet marked with authority.
Commander Thorn.
He scanned the room once, then motioned to his men.
“Clear.”
Two more red-armored Coruscant Guards entered, rifles up, fanning out.
“Senator,” Thorn said, voice clipped. “You’re being placed under full security protection by order of the Chancellor.”
You were still catching your breath. “Nice to meet you too.”
Thorn’s helmet didn’t move. “You were targeted by a professional. It wasn’t random.”
“No kidding,” you muttered, pulling yourself up. “Didn’t think a critic of the military complex would be popular.”
His head tilted slightly. “You’ll be assigned two guards at all times. Myself included.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You? You’re—what, my babysitter now?”
“I’m your shield,” he said coolly. “Whether you like it or not.”
There was steel in his posture, in his voice, but also something else—something unreadable beneath the weight of his duty.
You scoffed, brushing glass off your skirt. “Hope you’re not allergic to disaster, Commander. I tend to attract it.”
“You attract assassins,” he said. “Disaster is just the symptom.”
You paused.
“…You’re kind of intense.”
He stared.
“You’re kind of loud,” he replied.
You blinked—then grinned. “This is going to be so much fun.”
⸻
You woke up to three missed calls, two blistering news headlines, and one very annoyed clone standing guard inside your kitchen.
Thorn hadn’t moved from his post since 0400.
You stumbled in wearing a shirt that definitely wasn’t clean and cradling your hangover like an old lover.
He didn’t even blink at your state.
“Your 0900 meeting with the Chancellor has been moved up,” he said without looking at you. “You’re expected in twenty minutes.”
You opened the fridge. Empty. “Does that meeting come with caf?”
“No.”
“You’re a real charmer, Thorn.”
No answer.
You slapped together something vaguely edible, tossed on the cleanest outfit from the pile on your couch, and let Thorn escort you through the durasteel halls of 500 Republica like a dignified mess being smuggled into a formal event.
Outside your building, the press was already gathered. Dozens of them, hollering questions, waving holorecorders. Most were shouting about your speech. Others were speculating on the assassination attempt.
You lowered your sunglasses, jaw tight.
Thorn’s voice was calm in your ear. “Keep walking. Don’t engage.”
You didn’t.
But you did flash a grin at the cameras.
“Can’t kill the truth, folks!” you shouted over the noise. “Especially not with bad aim!”
Thorn muttered something under his breath, possibly a curse, definitely not a compliment.
⸻
“She’s here?” Palpatine said, glancing toward the door. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Punctuality was never her strength.”
You walked in like you owned the building. “She can hear you, Sheev.”
Thorn stayed just inside the doorway, silent as ever, arms folded across his chest.
Palpatine gave you a smile that was mostly teeth. “Senator. I trust you’re recovering?”
“I’m not dead,” you said, collapsing into a chair without being asked. “Which is more than I expected, considering how many people are pissed at me right now.”
He folded his hands. “You courted controversy.”
You raised a brow. “I told the truth.”
“A dangerous thing to do in wartime,” he replied smoothly.
You ignored that, leaning forward. “How’d you know, Sheev?”
Palpatine tilted his head. “Know what?”
“That I was in danger. The Guards were in my apartment before my assassin finished climbing in. You reassigned one of the Republic’s best commanders to me. That wasn’t a panic decision. That was preparation.”
He smiled again. “I have… many sources. Intelligence moves quickly.”
“Cut the bantha,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You know something you’re not saying.”
He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps. But for now, consider this a favor from an old friend.”
“Friend,” you scoffed. “You just like having me close where you can monitor the damage.”
He laughed—light, calculated. “That too.”
You stood. “You owe me answers.”
“I owe you safety,” he corrected. “And you owe the Republic your discretion.”
Thorn shifted behind you, a silent shadow.
“Come on, Commander,” you muttered. “Let’s go before I commit a diplomatic incident.”
⸻
The day hadn’t gotten better.
You’d dodged three interviews, gotten a drink thrown at you by a rival senator’s aide, and broken your datapad in half slamming it on a desk during a debate about clone rights.
You flopped onto your couch, exhausted, mascara smudged, shoes kicked off, hair a mess.
Thorn stood by the window like a living sculpture, arms behind his back.
“You don’t say much,” you mumbled.
“Not required.”
“You don’t flinch either.”
“No point.”
You cracked one eye open. “You ever… relax?”
Silence.
You laughed. “Of course not. You’re like a walking bunker.”
More silence.
You looked over at him. “Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look at me like I’m a mess waiting to happen?”
He finally turned his head toward you. “Because you are.”
You blinked—then smiled.
“For a guy who’s made of rules and laser bolts, you’re kinda boring.”
“I’m not here to be fun.”
You sat up, facing him. “Why are you here then, really? Is it just duty? Or did someone decide I was too much trouble to leave unmonitored?”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t leave either.
You leaned closer, voice quieter now. “Do you think I’m wrong about the clones?”
“No.”
You blinked.
“But I follow orders,” he said. “You question them. That makes us different.”
You smiled faintly. “Or it makes us the same. You follow orders to protect lives. I break them for the same reason.”
His visor tilted just slightly. “We’ll see.”
And for a moment, the tension between you wasn’t about politics, or rules, or ideology.
It was the electric kind.
The kind that promised more.
⸻
The club was called The Silver Spire, and it was upscale enough for senators to pretend they weren’t slumming it, but scandalous enough that holonet gossipers would have a field day by morning.
You stepped out of the transport wearing a dress that didn’t scream “senator” so much as it whispered come ruin your reputation with me.
Thorn, behind you, said nothing.
Padmé was already waiting at the front with a small group—Senator Chuchi, Bail Organa (reluctantly), and Mon Mothma, who had her hair up and her tolerance down.
Three red-armored Coruscant Guards flanked the entrance, scanning the street. Thorn spoke into his comm lowly as you joined the others.
“Extra security is in place. Interior sweep complete. Rooftop clear.”
Padmé greeted you with a grin. “Tried to get here early so we could actually enjoy ourselves before the whispers start.”
“I’m already hearing whispers,” you said, nudging her. “Mostly from the commander behind me.”
“I don’t whisper,” Thorn said flatly.
Padmé bit a smile. “Clearly.”
Just then, a new figure approached—dark robes, loose tunic, that signature brow of broody disapproval.
“Senator,” Anakin Skywalker said to Padmé, too formally. “Council approved my presence tonight—just as added protection.”
Padmé raised a brow. “Did they?”
“They did,” he said. “Too many of you gathered in one place after a recent assassination attempt… it’s a risk.”
“Right,” you said, sipping your cocktail from a flask you hadn’t told Thorn you’d brought. “And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Padmé’s here.”
Anakin ignored that. Barely.
Thorn, beside you, was watching the crowd, the rooftops, the angles of the building like he was mapping out a warzone.
You turned slightly toward him. “Do you ever stop scanning?”
“Only when you stop being a walking target.”
You laughed. “So never?”
“Exactly.”
Inside, the music was low and tasteful, the lights golden. You were seated in a semi-private booth, guarded at all angles. The senators tried to act casual—like they weren’t all wearing panic buttons and sipping around holonet spies.
You watched Padmé and Anakin from across the table. They didn’t touch. They didn’t flirt.
But their eyes never really left each other.
You leaned toward Thorn, who stood behind you like a silent monolith.
“Are all Jedi that obvious when they’re trying not to be obvious?”
Thorn didn’t blink. “No.”
You smiled. “So it’s just Skywalker.”
Thorn didn’t answer—but you were almost sure his mouth twitched.
You sat back, swirling your drink. “You ever go out, Commander? When you’re off duty?”
“I’m never off duty.”
“Do you have a bed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you use it or does it stand in the corner like a decoration?”
Thorn finally looked down at you. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“Do you ever start?”
That almost-smile again.
And just like that, the press of people, the chatter, the pretense—it all seemed distant.
Just you and Thorn and the buzz of something quietly building between bulletproof walls.
“Y’know,” you murmured, “you should really enjoy this moment.”
Thorn’s gaze flicked down. “Why?”
You tilted your head. “Because it’s the closest you’ll ever be to letting your guard down.”
For a second, just a second, his eyes lingered.
Not as a soldier. Not as your shield.
As a man.
Then—
“Senator—movement on the south entrance.”
His voice was clipped, all business again. The moment gone.
You stood, heartbeat ticking faster, not because of the threat—but because you hadn’t realized how close you’d gotten to crossing a line neither of you acknowledged.
The commotion turned out to be nothing.
A waiter with nerves and a tray full of champagne had slipped near the side entrance, knocking over a heat lamp and sending sparks into the ornamental drapes.
No fire. No attack.
Just a very excitable Skywalker igniting his saber in the middle of the dance floor like a drama king with no sense of subtlety.
“Code Red!” he shouted. “Everyone get down!”
“Anakin, stand down!” Padmé hissed, yanking his arm. “It’s a spilled drink and a curtain, not a coup.”
You leaned sideways in your booth, already two cocktails and one shot past rational thinking. “Didn’t know Jedi training included interpretive panic.”
Commander Thorn muttered something into his comm as his men de-escalated the scene. His voice was sharp, focused, firm.
Yours was not.
“Commander,” you slurred, tipping your glass slightly in his direction. “You ever seen a lightsaber waved around that fast outside of a bedroom?”
Chuchi nearly snorted her drink. Padmé covered her mouth to hide her laugh.
Mon Mothma gave a long-suffering sigh. “I knew letting her have wine was a mistake.”
You grinned at her, shameless. “Mistakes are just… educational chaos.”
“Stars,” Bail said dryly, “you’re drunker than a Republic budget.”
You slapped the table proudly. “Drunk, but alive! Which is better than last night, thank you very much.”
Thorn exhaled, long and quiet. “You’re done drinking.”
You blinked up at him, all wide eyes and mischief. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
He stared down at you. “You’re under protection detail.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m under you,” you whispered.
Dead silence.
Padmé choked.
Mon Mothma turned very interested in the far wall.
Thorn blinked once, slowly, before turning to the other senators. “Evening’s over. Time to go.”
⸻
You were a pile of glitter, political scandal, and heels. And you refused to walk.
“You’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat real food,” Thorn grunted, carrying you in full armor up four flights of stairs after you refused the lift, citing, “The lights are judging me.”
You giggled against his shoulder. “You’re comfy. Like a walking shield.”
“That’s literally my job,” he deadpanned.
“I like your voice,” you slurred. “You always sound like you’re disappointed in me.”
“I am.”
You laughed so hard you nearly slid out of his arms.
He adjusted his grip with practiced ease. “You’re going to be hurting in the morning.”
“I already hurt,” you mumbled. “But, like, in a sexy tragic way.”
He snorted. Actually snorted.
You grinned. “Was that a laugh, Commander?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He deposited you onto your couch with surprising gentleness, removing your heels and placing them neatly aside.
You flopped dramatically. “You missed your calling. Should’ve been a nurse.”
“I don’t have the patience.”
You curled up, eyes closing. “You’re not what I expected.”
He stood over you, helmet off now, expression unreadable. “Neither are you.”
“Is that a compliment?” you asked through a yawn.
He watched you quietly, the chaotic senator turned half-conscious mess under his protection.
“It might be.”
You were half-curled on the couch now, dress hiked slightly, makeup smudged, dignity somewhere on the floor with your shoes. Thorn hadn’t left—not even after you’d settled. He stood a few paces away, helmet off, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Watching. Waiting. Guarding.
“I’m not always like this,” you muttered into the throw pillow. “The drinking. The… dramatics.”
“You don’t need to explain.”
“I do.” You shifted slightly, blinking blearily at him. “I’m supposed to be a leader. I give speeches about justice, fight for ethics, talk about ending the war, and then I come home and pour whiskey over my own hypocrisy.”
His expression didn’t change. But something in his stance eased.
“You’re not a hypocrite,” he said quietly.
You looked up, surprised.
“I’ve seen hypocrites,” he added. “They talk about morality while funding the war. You talk about morality and get shot for it.”
You laughed—low and bitter. “So what does that make me?”
He hesitated. “It makes you dangerous… and honest.”
You sat up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, your eyes catching his in the low apartment light.
“You really think I’m dangerous?” you asked, voice dipping softer.
His jaw ticked. “Not in the way they do.”
That made you smile.
He didn’t move as you stood, slowly, stepping closer. The room felt smaller. Or maybe just warmer. It could’ve been the wine. Or maybe just him—that presence, that gravity. Commander Thorn wasn’t the type of man women flirted with lightly. He didn’t bend. He didn’t soften.
And still… you reached out, fingers brushing his forearm.
“You ever wish you weren’t born for war?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “That you could just… be?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not quite. But something quiet. Something unspoken.
“I don’t know what I’d be if I wasn’t a soldier.”
You stepped even closer now, your chest nearly brushing his, head tilted up, eyes locked. “Maybe something softer.”
“I don’t do soft,” he said.
“I noticed.”
And for a heartbeat—just one—you leaned in. Close enough to kiss him. Close enough to feel the heat between you tighten, coil, burn.
But you stopped.
Just short.
Your breath hitched. You stepped back quickly, blinking it all away.
“I should sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.
Thorn didn’t stop you. Didn’t move. But he watched you turn and disappear toward your bedroom, silent and unreadable.
You paused in the doorway. Just once. Just to check.
He was still standing there.
Still watching.
Still unreadable.
⸻
Morning crept in too early.
You cracked one eye open, instantly regretting it.
Head pounding. Mouth dry. Memory foggy. Your brain felt like a poorly written senate proposal—messy, circular, and somehow your fault.
The last thing you remembered clearly was Thorn’s voice. Then his arms. Then…
Stars.
You sat up too fast and nearly fell right back down.
“Water. Water, water, water,” you croaked to the empty room.
A glass appeared on the side table beside you.
You blinked up.
Commander Thorn.
Helmet on now. Fully armored. Exactly how he should look. Except—
He was standing just a bit too close.
“Appreciate it,” you muttered, taking the water. “You didn’t have to stay.”
“I did,” he said simply.
Right. Assigned protection detail. Not a choice. Orders.
Still—something about the way he looked at you felt like choice.
You downed the water and stood slowly, stretching. “So, uh… rough night?”
He didn’t answer.
You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. The memory of how close you’d gotten—how close you’d almost—
No. You shook it off.
Professionalism. That’s what today needed. That’s what he was good at.
You, less so.
“Thanks for not letting me fall face-first into the street, by the way,” you said lightly, walking past him toward the kitchenette.
His arm brushed yours. Light. Barely a graze. But enough.
Your breath caught.
“Would’ve been an unfortunate headline,” he said. Still steady. Still unreadable.
“Senator turns into pavement garnish?” you replied, trying for a laugh. “Would’ve matched my mood lately.”
He didn’t laugh. But he looked at you. Really looked.
“I meant what I said last night.”
You blinked. “Which part?”
“You’re not a hypocrite.”
You busied yourself making caf, hands a little too shaky, smile a little too bright. “Well, that’s nice of you, Commander.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence.
But you could feel it. The tension in the room like a tripwire.
“About last night…” you started, not even knowing where the sentence would end.
“It didn’t happen,” he said smoothly. “You were drunk. I was on duty.”
Right. Of course. Clean line. No moment.
You turned around with your cup. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Being a soldier. Not breaking character.”
His eyes met yours behind that visor. “It’s not a character.”
You stepped around him—again too close, again intentional—and he didn’t move. Just let your shoulder skim his chestplate.
“You should eat something,” he said quietly. “Briefing at 0900.”
You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
But as you passed, you felt it again—his hand brushed your lower back. Light. Careful. Not an accident.
He didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.
He wanted you.
And he wouldn’t act on it.
Because that’s what made him him
⸻
The Chancellor’s private dining room was lavish, but you’d long stopped noticing the gold trim and absurd chandeliers. You lounged in your chair, a flute of something far too expensive in hand, pretending you weren’t hungover and avoiding Thorn’s gaze like it was a live thermal detonator.
Across from you, the Supreme Chancellor smiled—too pleasantly, too knowingly.
“Well, if it isn’t the Republic’s most unpredictable idealist,” Palpatine drawled, pouring his own glass. “You’re in the news again.”
You groaned into your drink. “Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Sheev.”
Fox twitched behind the Chancellor, eyes flicking between you and Thorn with that razor-sharp gaze of his. Thorn stood two steps behind your chair—silent, steady, a red-and-white wall of unreadable authority. But Fox saw the difference. The slight tilt of Thorn’s stance. The angle of his chin. The way his eyes never really left you.
It was subtle. Surgical.
But not subtle enough for Fox.
He stepped beside Thorn under the guise of adjusting his vambrace. “You good, Commander?”
Thorn didn’t look at him. “I’m fine.”
“Mm,” Fox murmured. “Right.”
You and the Chancellor kept chatting—well, arguing more than anything. You never could sit through a lunch with Sheev without poking holes in something.
“So,” you said, slicing into your overpriced meal, “how did you know to send guards for me before the assassination attempt? I never requested security.”
The Chancellor’s eyes glinted. “I make it my business to know when my senators are in danger.”
“Your timing was suspiciously perfect.”
“Are you accusing me of conspiracy?” he asked with an arched brow, too amused.
“I’m accusing you of being five moves ahead of everyone, as usual,” you replied dryly.
Behind you, Thorn shifted ever so slightly. Fox noticed that too.
Fox leaned closer, voice low enough only Thorn could hear. “You’ve got a thing for her.”
Thorn said nothing.
“You don’t even flinch when she says the Chancellor’s first name. That’s love or lunacy, vod.”
Still, no reply. Just the twitch of a jaw.
Fox chuckled under his breath, then stepped back to his position, but the damage was done.
You looked back at Thorn over your shoulder, sensing the change. “Everything alright back there, Commander?”
“Yes, Senator,” he said smoothly, though his voice was a little rougher than usual.
You raised a brow. “You seem… tenser than usual. Something in the wine?”
“Possibly,” Fox muttered from across the room.
You narrowed your eyes but let it go. You turned back to the Chancellor, who was watching the exchange with mild curiosity and a hint of amusement, like he was reading a play he already knew the ending to.
“Oh, I like this,” he murmured, smiling into his glass.
You leaned in toward him conspiratorially. “Don’t get clever, Sheev. You’re not writing my love life.”
His smile only widened.
But behind you, Thorn stood stiff as stone—closer than ever.
And Fox, watching it all unfold, didn’t say another word.
But he knew.
⸻
The meeting had ended. Senators filtered out. The Chancellor had retreated to his private chamber. And you? You were gone with a flick of your hand and a half-hearted “Don’t let them kill each other, Commander.”
Now, the room was quieter. Almost peaceful. Almost.
Fox found Thorn where he knew he’d be—by the far window, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes still tracking your last known direction. His posture was perfect, as always. Controlled. Still.
Too still.
Fox stepped up beside him, arms crossed over red plastoid. “You got it bad.”
Thorn’s gaze didn’t shift. “Not the time, Marshal.”
Fox exhaled, slow and deliberate. “Look, I’m not trying to be a di’kut. But you need to hear this—from someone who actually gives a damn about you.”
Thorn’s silence stretched long enough to feel like permission.
“She’s not just another senator. She’s not just your senator.” Fox’s voice dropped low. “She’s his.”
At that, Thorn’s jaw ticked. Just barely. But Fox saw it.
“The Chancellor’s had her back for years. Don’t know why, don’t care. Maybe it’s her mouth, maybe it’s the trouble she causes, maybe it’s guilt—but she’s got more power than half that rotunda and she knows it.”
“I know who she is,” Thorn said quietly.
“Do you?” Fox leaned in, voice tight. “Do you know what he’s capable of when it comes to protecting her?”
Thorn met his eyes then, sharp as a blade.
“I’ve seen what he’s capable of.”
Fox gave a bitter smile. “Then don’t be stupid. Because if something happens—if you’re the reason she gets hurt, distracted, reckless—he won’t just end your career, Thorn. He’ll end you.”
Thorn looked away. “She’s already reckless.”
“But you keep her steady,” Fox snapped. “You’re already involved. I see it. I see the way you track her movements like a sniper. The way your whole body shifts when she’s near.”
He paused, voice softening just a hair.
“I get it. I really do. She’s electric. She makes everyone feel like they’re on fire. Even the Chancellor lets her talk to him like an old friend.”
A beat passed.
“She calls him Sheev, Thorn. That alone should terrify you.”
Thorn didn’t laugh. But something like it ghosted behind his eyes.
Fox straightened. “Just… be careful. Keep your walls up. Because she doesn’t need a guard who forgets who he is. And you don’t need to be another ghost in her story.”
They stood in silence a moment longer—two commanders, scarred and stubborn, still brothers beneath it all.
Then Thorn spoke, low and steady.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Fox shook his head, muttered, “No, you don’t,” and walked away.
Next Chapter
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.
⸻
Arc Trooper Echo x Old Republic Jedi Reader
Before the War, Before the Fall...
You were never supposed to be here.
Once, long before the clone army ever existed, you were a Jedi Knight of the Old Republic. A warrior of the High Order, trained in the arts of peace and battle alike. Your robes were stitched from tradition, your saber forged in a time when the galaxy still believed in balance. You fought in the Mandalorian conflicts, aided in the fallout of Sith uprisings, and stood beside legends long turned to dust.
And then, during a critical mission—classified even by High Council standards—you were frozen in carbonite for protection, hidden away on an unmarked moon. Preserved in silence. Time passed. Empires fell. Republics reformed.
You were forgotten.
Until General Skywalker found you.
Woken from carbon stasis nearly a thousand years later, you emerged into a war-torn galaxy so alien, it barely recognized you as Jedi. The robes were the same. The Code had survived in pieces. But the people... *they* were different.
Especially the clones.
You had never seen soldiers bred for war. The first time you met the 501st, they moved as one—disciplined, deadly, proud. But each man had a spark of something unique. Echo's spark shone brightest to you.
ARC Trooper Echo, all calm focus and sharp wit. Loyal to a fault. Quietly brave. There was a warmth beneath his helmet that reminded you of someone you lost long ago.
And over time, in the stolen spaces between battles and strategy briefings, you found yourself seeking him out. And he—hesitantly, almost shyly—did the same.
You shared jokes, glances, meditations by moonlight. Nothing official. Not even a kiss. Just the ache of something growing where no roots should've taken hold.
---
**Now...**
The hangar echoed with the sound of carbon-freeze generators.
You stood near the chamber platform, arms folded, watching the 501st prepare for the Citadel mission. An infiltration like no other. High risk. No guarantee of return.
Your heart beat in time with the distant hiss of steam. You'd been in carbonite before. You wouldn't wish it on anyone.
"You really want to go through with this?" you asked as Echo approached, helmet tucked under his arm.
He smirked. "I've seen worse."
You raised an eyebrow. "Really? *Worse* than being flash-frozen and dropped into a fortress built to kill Jedi?"
He shrugged with a boyish tilt of his head. "When you put it like that..."
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. "I don't like this mission. Something feels... off."
Echo's smile faded just slightly. "I know. But we follow orders."
You stared at him a long moment, eyes locking with his.
"I've had my fair share of carbon-freeze," you said softly, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Trust me—it's overrated. Don't make it a habit."
Echo chuckled, but there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Or hope. His fingers brushed yours briefly.
"If I don't make it back—"
"You *will*," you cut in.
He held your gaze. "Still. If I don't... I'm glad it was you."
The words hung in the air like an unsent message. You swallowed the ache in your throat.
"I'll be waiting," you whispered.
Then the chamber hissed open, and Echo stepped inside. You watched as he was encased in freezing mist—familiar, haunting. And then he was still.
---
They returned.
Most of them.
But not him.
You heard the news with numb detachment. "Echo didn't make it." Skywalker didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Fives couldn't speak at all.
You were handed Echo's pauldron. Burnt. Cracked.
But the Force...
The Force *whispered* something else.
In meditation, beneath the endless hum of the ship, you reached for that flicker—the warm, stubborn light of him. It was faint. Weak. But not extinguished.
You pressed your hand to your heart and said nothing.
Because you knew.
*Echo was still alive.*
And whatever the cost... you'd find him.
---
You couldn't let it go.
No matter how much time passed, or how many battles you fought alongside the 501st, there was something you couldn't shake—a gnawing feeling deep in your soul. Echo was out there. You knew it. The Force whispered it to you every time you closed your eyes.
You felt him.
The report had come through the 501st's channels—Echo was alive, but he was a prisoner. He had been taken to Skako Minor and reprogrammed, twisted into something... else. A broken version of the man he had once been. But you didn't care. You would bring him back. You would save him, no matter the cost.
Rex was right beside you, his unwavering loyalty to Echo just as strong as your own. The two of you, separated by a galaxy of uncertainty and destruction, had always understood each other in ways the others couldn't. Rex had never let go of his brother, and neither had you.
And now, you couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of the decision as you prepared for the mission. You weren't just doing this for Echo anymore. You were doing it for both of you—him and you. For the love of a comrade, a soldier, a friend, and perhaps, deep down, someone more.
"I won't rest until we find him," you whispered to Rex before the mission began.
Rex gave you a stern nod, though his eyes were soft with the same grief you carried. "We're not stopping until we bring him home."
You shared a glance with him—a silent understanding of what this meant. Echo had always been there, in the trenches with them, in the hardest of battles. But now, it was different. The question of who he was had morphed into something unrecognizable. Would the man you both knew still be the same when you found him?
---
The mission was critical, and time was running out.
You, along with Rex, Anakin Skywalker, and the Bad Batch, had infiltrated the outpost on Skako Minor. The Separatists had taken Echo—one of the finest ARC Troopers—and turned him into a prisoner, forced to serve their twisted agenda. You, however, weren't going to let that happen. Not if you could help it.
Echo was still alive. He had to be. You could feel it.
The journey to the outpost had been a long and difficult one, but now, standing on the precipice of their base, you knew what needed to be done. You had trained with Echo, fought beside him. He was family, and you weren't about to lose him to the war.
The place was cold, mechanical, and sterile—almost too quiet for comfort. It felt like a graveyard. But the faintest sound of movement ahead cut through the silence.
You turned, locking eyes with Rex. His jaw was set, his gaze firm. Beside him, Anakin stood, ready for anything. And then, there was Echo.
But he wasn't the same.
There he was—strapped into an array of machines, wires trailing from his body, his face emotionless. The pain of seeing him like this nearly broke you in that moment, but you knew it wasn't over. He was still Echo.
"Echo," Rex called softly, stepping forward. "We've got you, buddy. We're getting you out of here."
For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of machines and the silence of the outpost. Then, a flicker of movement. Echo's head turned slowly, his eyes blank, as if the man you once knew was buried deep inside somewhere, and this was just the shell.
You stepped forward, your heart racing in your chest. "Echo? Can you hear me?" Your voice was calm, but it cracked with the emotion you could no longer contain. You were here. You had found him.
Slowly, Echo's lips curled into a small, dry smile—familiar, but tinged with something distant.
"You know, I was starting to get used to this place," Echo's voice was robotic, distant. "It's better than the barracks, but I think I could've done without the wires."
You laughed softly, despite the ache in your chest. "You always did have a way with words. Still, this is no place for you. We're taking you back, Echo. You belong with us."
Echo's gaze flickered toward you briefly, his eyes dull but still alive with some trace of recognition. "You... came for me," he muttered, as though trying to process the reality of it.
"You know we would," you said, your voice firm, yet gentle. "You're one of us, Echo. You don't leave your squad behind."
But Echo's face darkened, his expression turning pained. "I'm not the same anymore," he said quietly, almost regretfully. "They've done something to me. I don't know if I can go back to being who I was."
The words hit you hard. But you refused to back down. "That doesn't matter. You're still the same person, Echo. You've always been there for us. We are still here for you."
Echo shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the floor. "I don't know... I don't think I can go back to being that soldier. I've changed."
Rex stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "You're more than what they've made you, Echo. You've always been more than that
For a moment, Echo seemed to consider this, his eyes moving between you and Rex. But then, he shook his head slowly.
"I don't know if I can go back to who I was," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.
Rex's hand clenched into a fist. "You don't have to go back. We're here for you, Echo. We'll fight for you."
Anakin stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "We'll help you, Echo. We're not leaving anyone behind."
Echo's expression remained stoic, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Maybe... maybe I'm not the man you want me to be," he whispered. "Maybe I'm not that soldier anymore."
The pain in Rex's eyes was palpable, but his voice was resolute. "You're not alone, Echo. You never were. And we're not leaving without you."
The escape was chaotic.
Once Echo was freed from the machine bindings, the alarms blared throughout the facility. There was no time to waste. You, Rex, Anakin, and the Bad Batch fought your way out, blasters blazing, all while Echo struggled to regain his bearings. His movements were stiff, his mind clouded from the reprogramming, but with every passing moment, you could see him coming back to himself—albeit slowly.
It was Anakin who led the charge through the outpost's corridors, his strategic mind piecing together their escape route even as enemy fire rained down on them. Rex covered you, his blaster raised and steady, while you kept your focus on Echo, guiding him through the madness.
"You're with us, Echo. We'll get you out of here," you said, trying to keep him calm. He didn't respond, but the faintest nod was all you needed.
When you reached the hangar, the Bad Batch took their positions, covering the exits and keeping the Separatists at bay. Echo was stumbling, but he kept moving forward, a faint glimmer of the soldier he once was starting to re-emerge. You didn't know if he would ever be the same again, but for now, he was with you—and that was all that mattered.
"Keep moving, Echo," you said as you pushed him toward the ship.
"I'm with you," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "I'll never leave you behind."
Finally, after what felt like hours of intense combat, you made it to the ship. The engines roared to life, and the transport shot off into the atmosphere, away from the chaos of Skako Minor.
As you all settled into your seats, the adrenaline of the escape began to wear off, and the weight of what you'd just witnessed settled in. Echo was alive, but he was still so far from being the man you remembered. The wires, the reprogramming, the suffering—it was all etched into him in ways you couldn't yet fully understand.
But you were determined to help him heal. You didn't care what it took— and you wouldn't leave him behind again.
- - -
The chaos of the mission on Skako Minor had finally settled, leaving an overwhelming sense of relief in its wake. The Marauder, the ship piloted by the Bad Batch, now cut through the stars as it headed towards the Republic fleet. It was a rough ride—no surprise there, considering the crew—but it was a comforting one. There was a sense of familiarity with the Bad Batch's eccentricities, their usual banter filling the air around you. However, the most comforting part of all was Echo, sitting across from you.
It had been a long and arduous rescue, but Echo was finally free—physically, at least. The mental scars of his time with the Separatists would take longer to heal.
Echo was seated across from you, leaning back slightly in his seat, his expression distant. His posture was less rigid than usual, but you could see the storm behind his eyes. The escape had been harrowing, and he was still processing everything.
Wrecker, the ever-vibrant and boisterous member of the Bad Batch, was rummaging around in the back, most likely looking for snacks. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say we were all a little too quiet today," he said with his signature grin, tossing a bag of chips to Tech, who caught it with precision.
Tech raised an eyebrow but accepted the snack. "We've just been through a rather intense operation, Wrecker. A little silence isn't a bad thing."
Meanwhile, Hunter leaned against the wall near the cockpit, his piercing eyes scanning the ship's systems, though his attention occasionally drifted toward you and Echo. You knew he respected Echo's capabilities, but you also suspected that he had noticed the bond growing between the two of you.
Rex, too, had been quietly observing, but it was clear from his relaxed posture that he was relieved. Everyone had come out of the mission alive, but the tension was far from gone.
You turned your attention back to Echo, noticing how his eyes occasionally flickered toward the viewport. The stars outside were nothing compared to the turmoil inside him, and it hurt you to see him struggling.
You shifted in your seat and, without thinking, reached across the aisle to gently nudge his arm. "You know, I've had my fair share of carbon freezing," you joked softly, trying to lighten the mood. "So I can't say I'm jealous of you getting to do it again."
Echo blinked, looking at you as a quiet smile tugged at his lips. "I think I've had enough of it for a lifetime," he said with a soft chuckle. "That last time wasn't exactly a vacation."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, the way the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You shared a brief moment of eye contact before he looked back at the stars, and you took the opportunity to close the distance just slightly, your hand brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes in that quiet moment.
The Marauder continued its journey through the void, the hum of the ship's engines filling the air. But it wasn't just the ship that seemed to hum now—it was the quiet connection between you and Echo, something that had always been there, unspoken. The bond between the two of you felt more tangible now, as if the events of the mission had brought you even closer together.
Wrecker, still in the back, called out over his shoulder, "Hey, you two going to just stare at each other the whole ride, or are we finally going to get a real conversation out of you?"
Echo let out a quiet laugh, his eyes flicking to you with a playful, almost sheepish expression. "I think we're getting there."
You couldn't help but grin at the playful teasing, but your heart was racing. A brief glance passed between you, and for just a moment, you felt like the weight of everything—the war, the danger, the mission—faded into the background. It was just you and him, the connection between you two solidifying in that quiet space.
Echo's voice was lower now, more intimate as he leaned slightly closer. "I don't know how to say this, but... I'm glad you were here. I don't think I could have made it through this without you."
Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. The words were too big to express, but the warmth in your chest was enough to convey everything.
"You don't have to say anything," you replied quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm just... happy you're safe."
Echo gave a small smile before his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, sending a flutter through your stomach. "Safe, but not unscathed."
The words lingered between you, but this time, it didn't feel like an obstacle. It felt like a truth you were both starting to accept. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Echo wasn't just a soldier you fought beside. He was something more. Someone more.
- - -
When the Marauder finally docked with the Republic fleet, the hangar bay was filled with the usual bustle of activity. You all disembarked, the quiet tension of the mission still hanging in the air. Everyone's expressions were marked by the weight of what had just happened.
Echo, though physically alive and well, still seemed lost in his thoughts. The Bad Batch, as usual, carried on with their typical behavior, but there was a more subdued air about them. Hunter gave a curt nod of approval as you all made your way toward the command center.
As you walked together, Echo's hand brushed against yours again, a simple, tender touch that made your heart skip. You looked at him, your breath catching in your throat.
"Well, I guess we're back," you said with a light smile. "Not exactly how I imagined the rescue would go."
Echo smirked, his fingers lingering on yours.
Your heart swelled at the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, the affection clear in your gaze.
Before either of you could speak again, Rex came up beside you, giving you a teasing look. "Hey, I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm pretty sure you're both walking into a warzone if you don't get it together soon."
Echo chuckled, his face reddening just a little. "Rex is right, you know. Maybe we should take some time to... figure things out."
You nodded, your heart racing. "I think that's a good idea."
Wrecker, who had been trailing behind, chimed in from a distance. "Oh great! Another love story brewing on this ship. I hope it's not as dramatic as the last one!"
You and Echo exchanged a playful glance, both of you rolling your eyes at Wrecker. Amused but not wanting to pry on the Batch's secret love lives.
With your hand still in his, Echo leaned in slightly, his voice soft. "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
You smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace settle over you. "Good. Because I don't think I could do this without you."
The two of you walked side by side toward the command center, the quiet between you now a comfortable one. You had no idea what the future held, but in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—you and Echo had finally found something worth holding onto.
_______
Part 2
Flower boy 🌻
Prettiest man ever!?? Fives in a flowercrown is something i didnt know i needed to draw for therapy ❤️🩹
Foxy again 😀 Click for higher quality >.> I'm unsure why it looks blurry on my tablet..
Republic Commando - Delta Squad
Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:
@jaderavenarts (x)
@papanowo (x)
@leafdupe (x)
Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:
38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.
40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.
07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.
62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.
I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!
Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra
NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade
“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.1
Commander Fox x Senator Reader x Commander Thorn
Summary: The senator becomes the quiet obsession of two elite commanders, sparking a slow-burn love triangle beneath the surface of duty and politics.
If anyone ever asked, you’d tell them you became a Senator by accident.
You weren’t born with a silver tongue or bred in the soft halls of Coruscant. No. You earned your seat by scraping your way up through the mess of planetary diplomacy, one bitter compromise at a time. And somehow—against your better judgment—you’d gotten good at it.
Politics were war without blasters.
And most days, you’d rather take a shot to the chest than attend another committee meeting.
Still, here you were—draped in crimson silks, shoulders squared like armor, and face carved into the perfect expression of interest. The Senate roared with debate. Systems cried for resources. Sycophants whispered and bartered behind you. But your voice—when you chose to use it—cut through like a vibroblade. That’s what made you dangerous.
Padmé once told you that change was a quiet thing, made in corridors and council rooms, not just battlefields. You told her it felt more like drowning slowly in bureaucracy. She just smiled like she knew a secret you didn’t.
The Senate was a performance.
A stage lined with robes instead of armor, filled with actors who knew how to posture but not how to listen.
You hated it.
And yet, you were one of its stars—elected against the odds, sharp-tongued, unrelenting, and quietly feared by those who underestimated you. You never pretended to like the political game. You just played it better than most.
Still, days like this tested your patience. The emergency session dragged past the second hour, voices rising, layered with false concern and masked self-interest. You didn’t roll your eyes—but it was a near thing.
“Senator,” came the calm voice of a nearby aide. “Security detail has arrived to sweep the outer hall. Commander Fox, Commander Thorn.”
You turned your head slightly as the two men entered the chamber.
Fox came first.
Red armor, regulation-sharp posture, unreadable expression. His presence was quiet but absolute, a man built for control. He walked with measured steps, every movement efficient. You watched him briefly—no longer than anyone else in the room—and noted how his gaze swept the perimeter with military precision.
He didn’t look at you. Not directly. Not for more than a second.
But you noticed the exact moment he registered you.
His shoulders didn’t shift. His mouth didn’t twitch. Nothing gave him away.
But you were good at reading people. And Fox? He was good at not being read.
Thorn followed.
Equally sharp, but louder in presence. His armor bore the polished gleam of someone who took pride in every inch of presentation. He offered a crisp nod to the aides and exchanged a brief, professional word with Senator Organa.
His eyes passed over you once. No pause. No flicker. But the angle of his head adjusted half a degree your way when he moved to stand by the chamber doors. Like he’d marked your position—nothing more.
Professional. Respectful. Untouched.
You exhaled slowly and turned back to your datapad.
Two Commanders. Two versions of unshakable.
You’d been warned of their reputations, of course. Fox, the stoic hammer of Coruscant. Thorn, the bold shield. Both deeply loyal to the Guard. Both rarely assigned together. Their presence meant the Senate was bracing for tension—possibly violence.
You liked them already.
Not because they were charming. Not because they were handsome—though they were, infuriatingly so.
But because they didn’t stare. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t approach with the practiced familiarity of most men who wanted something from a Senator.
No, they were disciplined. Detached.
And that, somehow, made them more dangerous than the rest.
⸻
Later, as the session adjourned and conversation bled into the marble corridors, you passed by them on your way to the lift.
Fox gave a slight incline of his head. Barely a greeting.
Thorn stood perfectly still, gaze straight ahead.
You didn’t stop. You didn’t speak.
But as the lift doors closed behind you, you felt it in your chest—that faint, inexplicable tightness. The kind that warned you of a fight you hadn’t seen coming.
And would never be able to vote your way out of.
⸻
The reception was loud.
Not in volume—but in elegance. Every glass clink, every diplomatic smile, every strategically placed compliment. That was how politicians shouted: with opulence, posture, and carefully crafted subtext.
You stood among it all, still in your robes from earlier, the deep crimson of your sleeves catching the soft amber light of the chandeliers. Surrounding you were names that made the galaxy shiver: Organa, Amidala, Mothma, Chuchi. Allies. Friends. Survivors.
You sipped something you didn’t like and watched the room, bored.
“Twice in one day?” Mon Mothma leaned in gently. “You deserve a medal.”
“Or a decent drink,” you muttered.
Padmé snorted into her glass.
You gave them a smile—small, real—and let your eyes drift.
And there they were. Again.
Commander Fox stood posted by the far archway.
Commander Thorn lingered near the entry steps. Both in armor. Both on duty. Both immaculately indifferent to the golden reception unfolding around them.
You could’ve ignored them.
You should’ve.
But after a half-hour of polite conversation and nothing to sink your teeth into, the idea of a genuine challenge was too appealing to resist.
You slipped away from your group, threading through gowns and murmurs. Your steps were casual but deliberate.
Thorn noticed first. You caught the faint movement of his helmet tilting. Then, quickly and without announcement, you redirected toward Fox.
He didn’t flinch. Not when you stopped a polite distance from him. Not when you met his visor directly. Not even when you tilted your head and offered the first word.
“You know,” you said mildly, “you’re very good at pretending I’m not standing here.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then: “I’m on duty, Senator.”
You gave him a slow nod. “So you are. Must be terribly dull work, watching senators pretend they aren’t scheming.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?” You leaned in slightly. “What’s worse than watching politicians drink for four hours straight?”
He didn’t answer. But there was a pause—a longer one than regulation probably allowed.
Then finally: “This isn’t the place for conversation.”
“Neither was the Senate floor,” you replied, tone still light. “But you seemed comfortable enough ignoring me there, too.”
At that, something shifted. Barely.
His stance remained rigid. But there was a tightness in his voice now. Controlled tension.
“I don’t make it a habit to engage senators unnecessarily.”
You smiled. Not smug—genuinely amused.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not here to engage you unnecessarily. I just wanted to see if you had a voice beneath all that silence.”
Another pause.
Then, quietly, like it had to be pried loose from steel:
“You’ve heard it now.”
And with that, he returned his gaze forward, unreadable once again.
You lingered a second longer than appropriate. Then turned, walking back to the crowd without looking over your shoulder.
Across the room, Thorn watched the entire exchange.
Didn’t move. Didn’t comment. But his gaze followed you as you rejoined your peers.
Unlike Fox, Thorn had no need for stillness. His restraint was a choice.
And he’d just decided not to intervene.
Not yet.
⸻
You hated how the armor caught the light.
Crimson and white, clean-cut, unblemished—too perfect. Commander Thorn didn’t just wear his armor; he carried it like a statement. Like confidence forged in durasteel.
He stood near one of the tall reception windows now, half-shadowed by draping silk and flickering light. Unlike Fox, who radiated stillness, Thorn watched everything in motion. His gaze tracked movement like a soldier born for the battlefield—alert, calculating, assessing.
But not unkind.
You’d caught his eye earlier during your exchange with Fox. He hadn’t interfered. Hadn’t so much as shifted his weight. But you saw the way he watched you walk away.
And now, with your patience for schmoozing officially dead, you veered toward him with no hesitation.
He acknowledged you before you spoke. A small nod. That alone told you he was already more accommodating than his brother-in-arms.
“Senator,” he said. Not cold. Not warm. Polite. Neutral.
“Commander Thorn,” you echoed, coming to a stop beside him. “You look like you’ve spent the last hour resisting the urge to roll your eyes.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Discipline.”
“Right,” you said dryly. “That thing I’m told I lack.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure. You made it through three conversations with Senator Ask Aak without drawing a weapon.”
“That is discipline,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Thorn’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the faint ease in his shoulders. He wasn’t as closed-off as Fox, but still impossibly hard to read. He didn’t lean in. Didn’t flirt. But he listened. Sharply.
“You don’t like these events,” he said plainly.
You raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked it’s that obvious.”
“You’ve looked at the clock seven times.”
You smirked. “Maybe I was counting the seconds until someone interesting finally spoke to me.”
He said nothing to that—no flustered denial, no cocky retort. Just the same steady, unreadable look. But his fingers tapped once—just once—against the side of his thigh.
Interesting.
“I take it you don’t like politicians,” you added.
“I’m a Coruscant Guard, Senator. I don’t get the luxury of liking or disliking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He turned his head slightly, visor reflecting soft gold.
“It’s the only one I’m giving you. For now.”
You were about to press that—to tease it open, to see if there was a warmer man behind the armor—but fate, cruel and punctual, had other plans.
“Senator!” came a voice from behind you. Shrill. Forced.
You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
Senator Orn Free Taa. Slime.
Thorn’s posture straightened by the inch. You fought the urge to groan.
“Senator,” you greeted coolly, turning.
“I must speak with you about your position on the Sevarcos embargo. It’s urgent.” He smiled like a Hutt—greasy and too wide. “We can’t keep putting blind faith in the neutrality of mining guilds.”
You glanced at Thorn once more. He didn’t move. But the angle of his helmet, ever so subtle, told you he was still watching.
You gave him a single step back. The silent kind of goodbye.
He didn’t stop you. But his voice, soft and unhurried, followed you as you turned.
“Be careful, Senator. You look like you’re about to say what you really think.”
You smirked.
“Don’t worry, Commander. I’ve survived worse than honesty.”
⸻
“By the stars,” you hissed as the door closed behind you, muffling the tail end of the diplomatic reception, “I’m going to strangle Taa with his own headtails.”
Mon Mothma, lounging with practiced poise on your office settee, didn’t even flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve threatened to kill a fellow senator this month.”
“It’s not a threat if I have plans.” You flung your datapad onto the desk and tore off your formal sash like it personally offended you. “He cornered me twice. Once about mining guilds, and once about ‘strengthening our bipartisan bond,’ whatever the hell that means.”
Mon hummed, sipping something chilled. “You’re too good at your job. That’s the problem.”
You collapsed beside her, robe twisted at the collar and hair loosening from its earlier neatness. “I swear, if I get one more leering invitation to a strategy meeting over dinner—”
“You’ll start accepting them and sabotaging their food.”
You sighed deeply. “Tempting.”
The soft clink of glass was the only reply for a moment. It was late now. The reception had dwindled, but your irritation hadn’t. The pressure. The performance. The underhanded proposals thinly veiled behind political niceties. You hated it. Hated the hypocrisy. Hated that you had to smile while enduring it.
“I just—” you started again, quieter now. “I didn’t sign up for this to climb power ladders. I wanted to help. Not play diplomat dress-up while watching bills get butchered by people who care more about their name than the outcome.”
Mon glanced sideways at you, ever the picture of composed empathy. “And yet, you still manage to do good.”
You scoffed but said nothing more. Your throat felt tight in that old, familiar way. Not tears. Just frustration. A weight you couldn’t always name.
A polite knock cut the quiet.
You blinked, sat straighter. Mon rose, brushing down her dress with a grace you could never quite copy.
“Enter,” you called, standing as the door slid open.
Commander Fox stepped in.
Of course.
His armor gleamed despite the late hour. Hands clasped behind his back, posture impeccable, expression unreadable as always. A faint shimmer of exhaustion touched the edges of his movements, but it never cracked the facade.
“Apologies for the interruption, Senator,” he said, voice even, “but I’m required to confirm your quarters have been secured following the reception.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re personally doing room checks now, Commander?”
“Protocol,” he said simply. “A precaution. There’s been increased chatter about potential targeting of senators affiliated with the Trade Route Oversight.”
You and Mon exchanged a look.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” she said lightly, already stepping out. “Try not to threaten him with silverware.”
The door hissed shut behind her.
You turned to Fox, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “You weren’t stationed here earlier. Thorn had this wing.”
“He was reassigned.”
“How convenient,” you murmured, studying him.
Fox didn’t blink.
You sighed. “Well? Do you need me to stand still while you sweep for bombs? Or is this the part where you sternly lecture me about walking away from my escort earlier?”
To your surprise, there was the slightest pause. A fraction of a beat too long.
“…You’re not as unreadable as you think,” you added, gaze narrowing. “You listen like you’re memorizing every word.”
“I am.”
That surprised you. Just a little.
“But not,” he continued, “because I intend to use any of it. Only because I’ve learned the most dangerous people in the galaxy are the ones everyone else stops listening to.”
Your arms dropped to your sides.
For once, you didn’t have a clever reply. Just a pulse that thudded too loud in the quiet.
Fox stepped past you, eyes scanning the perimeter of the room. His tone was quieter when he spoke again.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re unaffected. Not with me. But you do need to be careful, Senator. You’re surrounded by predators—”
You turned slightly. “And what are you?”
He looked at you then. Finally. Even through the helmet, it felt like impact.
“Trained,” he said.
Then he stepped back toward the door.
“Your quarters are secure. Good night, Senator.”
And just like that, he was gone.
You stood in the silence, heart still. Breath caught somewhere too deep in your chest.
Too good to show interest.
But stars, did he listen.
⸻
Next Chapter
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.9
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
The senator had just finished brushing out her hair when the knock sounded on her door. Not urgent. Not protocol. A familiar rhythm.
She smirked before she even opened it.
“Kenobi.”
“Senator,” he greeted smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He wore civilian robes again, lighter and less formal than the ones for Council meetings. He looked tired but amused.
She poured him a drink without asking.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Vos got you in trouble again?”
Obi-Wan laughed as he accepted the glass. “Not this time. Surprisingly. I’m here for a bit of… tea.”
Her brow lifted. “You’re bringing gossip now? I didn’t think you were the type.”
“Oh, I’m not,” he said, sipping. “But Commander Cody is. And as it turns out, your favorite Marshal Commander had quite the dramatic evening.”
Her smirk faltered. “Fox?”
“Mhm. Got into a full-on barracks brawl with Commander Thorn. It took Stone, Thire, Hound—and Grizzer, apparently—to break it up. Neyo had to drag Fox out by his collar and gave him a verbal lashing so brutal Cody said even he winced.”
She blinked. “What?”
Obi-Wan leaned casually against the back of her sofa. “Cody said it was over a woman. A senator. Tall. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous past. Ringing any bells?”
She rolled her eyes and finished her drink. “I thought Jedi were above this sort of drama.”
He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Not when we served alongside the subject of said drama during a war that’s still mostly classified.”
That shut her up.
“You always knew how to turn a knife with a smile,” she muttered, setting the glass down.
Obi-Wan’s face gentled. “They care about you. Both of them. Deeply.”
“And I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you earned it. The good and the bad of that kind of loyalty.”
She sighed, suddenly tired. “Did Vos tell them anything?”
Obi-Wan hesitated, then answered honestly. “No. Not really. Just implied. He knows better than to break sealed records. But they’re not stupid, either. Thorn saw the way you moved before you even said a word. Fox… saw something else.”
She didn’t respond.
He set the empty glass down beside hers. “I told Vos to stay out of it. I doubt he listened. But if you want this kept quiet… you might want to speak with the commanders yourself. Before someone else decides to dig deeper.”
Her voice was soft now. “What would you do?”
Obi-Wan gave a small shrug. “I’d probably lie. But I’m not sure that’s your style anymore.”
They shared a long look—one soldier to another, stripped of titles.
“Thank you,” she said at last.
He smiled. “Of course. You always did keep the battlefield interesting.”
As he turned to go, she called after him, dry as sand.
“Tell Cody if he wants to gossip, he should at least have the nerve to come see me himself.”
Obi-Wan chuckled all the way to the door. “Careful what you wish for.”
⸻
The senator had just settled into her chair, datapad in hand, when a familiar and entirely unwelcome sound echoed from her balcony—three sharp knocks, the rattle of the door handle, and then—
“Don’t pretend you’re not home. I saw the lights on.”
She sighed through her teeth. “Vos…”
Opening the door, she found the Jedi standing there with his usual self-satisfied smirk and not a single ounce of shame.
“You ever heard of calling first?” she asked flatly.
“I don’t believe in unnecessary formalities between old war buddies,” he said, brushing past her like he owned the place. “Besides, I’ve got juicy gossip and a bottle of Corellian red.”
She shut the door with a click. “Kenobi beat you to it.”
Vos froze mid-step. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Came by earlier. Looked annoyingly smug the whole time.”
“Dammit,” Vos muttered. “I was hoping to be the one to tell you about the Fox and Thorn Brawl.”
She smirked and took the bottle from him anyway. “Nice try. Obi-Wan already filled me in on the punches, the growling, the whole squad pile-up.”
Vos flopped into her armchair, legs over the arm like a delinquent. “Alright, but did he tell you the best part?”
She gave him a look.
Vos wiggled his eyebrows. “Fox apologized.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “To his men?”
Vos pointed at her with a grin. “There it is. That face. Knew you didn’t hear that part.”
She blinked. “Fox. Marshal Commander Fox. The same man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he even has feelings, much less regret?”
“The very same,” Vos said cheerfully. “Apparently gave Hound a bone for his mastiff and everything. I think it actually threw the Guard into a full existential crisis.”
She laughed softly. “Neyo must’ve really given it to him.”
“Oh, he did,” Vos said, eyes twinkling. “Word is, Neyo’s dressing down was so intense, Fox was halfway convinced he’d be reassigned to latrine duty.”
She snorted and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to him.
“Maybe,” she drawled, “I’ve been flirting with the wrong commanders.”
Vos choked on his sip, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Oh no, sweetheart. Even you couldn’t break Neyo.”
She raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”
“Not unless you’re into men who quote the regs during intimate moments.”
She laughed harder than she had in days.
As the amusement settled, Vos looked at her with a little more seriousness than usual. “You alright, really?”
She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her glass.
“I don’t regret anything I did back then,” she said. “But I hate how it’s all resurfacing. Like that version of me is still dragging shadows into every room I walk into.”
Vos leaned forward, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You survived a civil war, ended it, and turned your planet toward peace. And now you’re sitting here, sipping wine in the Senate instead of burning in some bunker. That’s not a shadow. That’s a story. And no one tells it better than you.”
She gave him a long look.
“Thanks,” she said quietly.
He winked. “Still not letting you off the hook for kissing both your bodyguards though. That’s just messy.”
She threw a pillow at him.
⸻
The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, amber hue across the polished floors of her apartment when the soft buzz of her door alerted her to a visitor.
She didn’t expect him.
Not after everything.
When the door slid open, Thorn stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, guarded in that way soldiers perfected when they didn’t want their emotions to show—except in his eyes. His eyes betrayed something deeper.
“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.
She hesitated… just long enough for him to notice.
Then she stepped aside.
They didn’t speak at first. She returned to her small table where a glass of wine still sat half-drunk, and Vos’ laughter still lingered faintly in the air, as if the apartment hadn’t fully exhaled him yet.
Thorn remained near the doorway, not quite relaxed, not quite tense.
“You don’t have to say it,” she finally murmured, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “I know. You were right.”
He furrowed his brows. “Right about what?”
She gave a soft, dry laugh. “That this was a mistake. All of it.”
Thorn exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant. Not really.”
“You kissed me.”
“You pushed me,” he said with a flicker of that fire that always simmered under his calm. “And I wanted to be kissed.”
She looked up at him. “And then Fox sent you back like a cadet who got caught sneaking out.”
His jaw flexed. “Because I let my feelings show. Because I let him see something he didn’t want to see.”
She stood slowly, her voice gentle but firm. “Thorn… this is dangerous. For both of us. And not just because of rank.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still here.”
He nodded. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even after the fight. Even after watching Fox—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.
She stepped closer now, mere inches between them. “You’re jealous.”
He didn’t deny it. “I’m angry. Because I tried to walk away. I tried to be the one who did the right thing.”
“And I ruined that for you?”
He looked at her—really looked at her—and in that moment there was no senator, no clone, no war. Just two people with too much history already bleeding into every breath.
“No,” he said quietly. “You made it impossible for me to pretend I didn’t care.”
There was silence.
Then she reached out and touched his chestplate with her fingers, barely grazing it.
“Then stop pretending,” she said.
But neither of them moved.
Neither of them stepped closer.
Not yet.
Not until the next moment demanded it.
Thorn stood still, looking at her hand on his chest like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it branded him in a way his armor couldn’t protect against. His voice was low, raw. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” she asked, just as softly. “Because you might believe me?”
He set his helmet down on the table with a heavy thud and finally stepped into her space—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath his skin. She thought he might kiss her again, but he didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he reached up and gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, like she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. “You terrify me,” he murmured.
She didn’t laugh. “You don’t scare easy.”
“I’ve marched into blaster fire. Held the line when we were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ve watched brothers die and kept moving.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve never wanted anything I wasn’t supposed to have. Until you.”
The words were quiet. Devastating.
Her hand slid up his chestplate, then around the back of his neck, pulling him closer—slowly, as if giving him a chance to step away.
He didn’t.
Their lips met with a quiet kind of urgency, like a dam that had finally cracked. It wasn’t the heat of two people caught in lust—it was aching, it was slow, it was raw with everything they’d tried to suppress. His hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, like he couldn’t believe she was really there.
She guided him out of the armor piece by piece, fingers steady, eyes never leaving his. When he pulled her to the bedroom, it wasn’t with dominance or control, but with reverence.
There, stripped of titles, armor, and pretense, they became something fragile and real.
He kissed her like a man desperate to remember softness.
She held him like someone who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.
And when they lay tangled afterward, skin to skin in the stillness, his fingers traced the scars on her shoulder without asking about them. She didn’t offer the stories. Not yet. But she turned her head to rest against his chest and felt his heartbeat settle under her cheek.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then he said, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t know how to protect you from this. From Fox. From me.”
She closed her eyes.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just stay.”
And he did.
⸻
Thorn woke first.
For a moment, he didn’t move—afraid that if he did, it would break whatever fragile illusion he was trapped in. The room was bathed in soft morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly in the Coruscant breeze. Outside, speeders hummed far below, distant and dull. But inside…
Peace.
Real, disarming peace.
She was still asleep, curled against him, her breathing even and steady. Her hand was draped lightly over his stomach, and her leg was tangled with his beneath the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without urgency. No missions. No blood. No orders. Just… this.
Serenity.
And it terrified him more than battle ever could.
His hand moved on its own, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, then resting against her bare back. The warmth of her skin anchored him. Her scent lingered faintly—clean, soft, a little sweet—and he closed his eyes just to soak in the feeling a little longer.
She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before blinking awake.
“Mmm… you’re still here,” she said softly, her voice half-sleep, half-smile.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I am.”
Her hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing a small scar near his collarbone. “You always this quiet in the morning?”
“Not usually awake this long without an alert blaring in my ear.”
She chuckled lightly. “Well… no alarms here.”
He nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling, as though trying to memorize the silence. “It’s strange. This—” he glanced down at her “—all of it. Quiet. Safe. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this.”
“You don’t like it?” she asked, teasing gently, but there was something vulnerable beneath it.
“I didn’t say that.” He met her eyes. “I just… don’t know how to trust it. Or how long it’ll last.”
She leaned in, brushing her lips softly over the scar on his jaw. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth having.”
For a long time, they stayed there. No rushing. No secrets. Just breath and skin and warmth.
He never thought he’d have something like this—however brief.
⸻
Fox stood outside the senator’s residence, helmet tucked under his arm.
He’d been pacing for ten minutes.
It was ridiculous. He’d faced death, treason, riots, bombs—Jedi. And yet nothing left him this gutted. This unsure.
Just say it. Say something. Anything.
She deserved to know. After everything. After the tension, the stolen glances, the fights, and—Force help him—the kiss. Thorn might have made his move first, but Fox wasn’t going to keep his silence anymore.
His fist hovered near the door chime.
He didn’t press it.
“Standing there long enough to grow roots, Commander?” Hound’s voice cut in, casual and amused.
Fox turned sharply to find Hound leaning against the nearest pillar with his arms crossed, Grizzer panting beside him, tail wagging lazily. Thire stood just behind, arms behind his back in mock-formal stance, an insufferable little smirk tugging at his lips.
“I swear,” Fox muttered, “the two of you have the worst timing.”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thire said, trying and failing to look innocent. “We just figured we’d keep an eye on our ever-composed Marshal Commander before he does something insane like… confess feelings.”
Fox gave him a glare that could have melted phrik plating.
“Just don’t bite anyone this time,” Hound added with a sidelong glance at Grizzer, who barked once and licked Fox’s hand.
“I didn’t bite anyone,” Fox growled.
“No, you didn’t,” Thire said under his breath.
Fox was about to fire back a very direct suggestion when—
“Oh, what is this delightful little pow-wow?” came a voice from behind them, smug and syrupy smooth.
All four turned just in time to see Quinlan Vos lounging in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the building.
Fox clenched his jaw.
Vos looked far too pleased with himself. “Let me guess… someone was finally going to admit they’re hopelessly in love with the senator? Or was it going to be another punch-up over who gets to carry her datapad?”
“Vos,” Fox said in warning, already half-drawing himself up to full height.
Vos waved a hand. “Relax, Commander Killjoy. I’m just here to observe. Gossip from Kenobi is delicious lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with all the drama.”
Thire bit back a laugh.
Fox sighed through his nose and muttered, “I’m going to regret not stunning him.”
Vos gave him a wink. “You already do.”
Fox turned back toward the door and this time raised his hand again.
Then lowered it.
Vos raised an eyebrow. “Need me to knock for you?”
Fox turned and walked away.
⸻
Quinlan Vos strolled into the senator’s apartment like he owned the place. He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t ask. Naturally.
That wasn’t the Vos way.
He’d barely made it three steps past the threshold when a shape rounded the corner from the hallway—bare chest, tousled hair, pants only halfway buttoned, a blaster slung low on one hip like he’d half expected a fight.
Commander Thorn froze.
Vos grinned.
“Oh,” Vos said, voice all sunshine and sin. “Well this explains why Fox has been spiraling.”
Thorn blinked, assessing, a quiet, burning calculation forming in his eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”
Vos gestured vaguely at the security panel. “I’ve got my ways. Jedi and their spooky talents, you know.”
“That’s not an answer,” Thorn replied coolly, stepping forward, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath sun-kissed skin. “This is a secure residence.”
“And yet…” Vos made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Here I am.”
Thorn glared.
“Relax, soldier boy. I didn’t see anything,” Vos said, though his smirk implied otherwise. “Well… not everything. Just enough to put together why Fox looked like he was going to snap a durasteel beam in half.”
“You here for a reason or just looking to get punched again?” Thorn said, folding his arms across his bare chest.
Vos’s eyes drifted—not subtly—to Thorn’s arms, then his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Tempting. But no.”
He took a lazy step further into the apartment. “I came to drop some news, actually. Then maybe raid her liquor cabinet, trade some gossip, and go back to annoying every clone I’ve ever met.”
Thorn didn’t move. “She’s not here.”
Vos cocked his head. “She usually is around this hour. Let me guess—you wore her out?”
The look Thorn gave him could’ve killed a man if it had weight.
“Fine, fine,” Vos said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait. Shirtless hostility aside, I do like you, Thorn. You’ve got a nice left hook.”
“You try me again, you’ll meet the right one.”
Vos grinned, utterly unbothered.
“And for the record,” Thorn added, tone low and steely, “if you ever break into this apartment again—Jedi or not—I’ll throw you off the balcony.”
Vos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What floor is this again?”
“High enough.”
Vos clapped his hands once. “Noted.”
He wandered to the couch, dropped onto it like he lived there, and propped his boots up on the table.
Thorn watched him like one might a wild nexu.
⸻
She wasn’t expecting anyone when the lift doors opened on her floor.
She certainly wasn’t expecting him.
Fox.
Full armor. Helmet off. That sharp, unreadable expression carved into his face like durasteel. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor lights hummed low between them. His eyes—dark, stormy, and too honest—met hers.
Behind him, lingering at a respectful distance, were Hound, Thire… and Grizzer, sitting dutifully by Hound’s side, tongue lolling, tail tapping quietly against the floor.
She blinked. “Fox?”
His jaw flexed. “Senator.”
She stepped out of the lift slowly, feeling the air shift between them. Vos was still upstairs—gods help her—but seeing Fox like this, seeing the way he looked at her, like he had something on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t let it go, sent her pulse thrumming.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer than she meant.
“I was going to…” He trailed off, mouth pressing into a firm line. He glanced over his shoulder toward Hound and Thire, who were doing their absolute best to not look like they were listening—while very much listening.
Grizzer gave a low grumble.
Fox sighed. “I was going to talk to you.”
The senator tilted her head slightly. “About?”
He shook his head, gaze sharp, searching her face. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew what I wanted to say but… seeing you now…”
There was something in his eyes. Regret. Hunger. Guilt.
“You’ve already seen me,” she said gently. “That’s not the part you’re afraid of.”
He breathed in through his nose, like he wanted to steady himself—but it didn’t work. “You’re not making this easy.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
Behind him, Hound cleared his throat. Loudly.
Fox’s eye twitched.
She stepped closer, brushing past him deliberately slow as she whispered near his ear, “If you have something to say, Marshal Commander, say it. Before someone else does first.”
His breath hitched.
Grizzer barked softly, tail thumping louder now. A silent warning. Or encouragement. Hard to tell.
Fox straightened, but didn’t follow her as she walked past him toward her door.
He stood still, watching.
And then—finally—he turned and walked away.
⸻
Fox had barely turned the corner when his men caught up with him. The quiet corridor buzzed with tension and discontent. Hound and Thire exchanged knowing looks as they trailed close behind.
“Why didn’t you say anything, Fox?” Hound demanded in a low voice, eyes narrowing.
“You had the chance—” Thire piped in, his tone laced with exasperated disbelief.
“A commander should speak when it matters. We expected more from you.”
Hound scoffed. “You were standing there like a malfunctioning protocol droid. What the hell happened to your plan?”
“I had a plan,” Fox muttered. “Then she looked at me.”
Fox’s jaw was set, and his silence only fueled the growing argument. He kept walking, head bowed, but the clones weren’t having it. Voices rose, accusations bounced around the corridor like stray blaster fire, until suddenly a commotion broke the standoff.
Fox’s eye twitched. “Not helping.”
“I am helping,” Hound insisted. “You’re just being—Grizzer, no!”
It was too late.
The mastiff had leapt up on his hind legs, snatched Fox’s helmet clean out of his arms with his teeth, and sprinted off like a warhound possessed.
Fox stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Oh, hells no,” Thire groaned, taking off after him. “That helmet’s got tracking tech and encryption!”
“He’s headed back toward—oh kriff—”
The three of them took off after Grizzer, who had already bounded back into the senator’s building. He knew exactly where he was going.
“Hound,” Fox wheezed as they rounded the stairwell. “If that animal gets us court-martialed, I’m taking you with me.”
Up another flight. And another.
They reached her apartment door just in time to see Grizzer’s large paws scratching at it, tail wagging like this was the most normal thing he’d ever done.
Before anyone could knock or grab the hound, the door swung open.
The senator stood there, blinking.
Grizzer barreled in, tail high, helmet still in his mouth. And—because clearly this day wasn’t chaotic enough—the three clones followed him in before she could even speak.
“Grizzer!” Hound hissed. “Drop it—”
The senator raised a brow, calmly closing the door behind them as she looked around.
Thorn stepped into view from the hallway, half-buttoning up a shirt that still hung open on his chest, a faint bite mark peeking near his collarbone.
Fox blinked and looked anywhere but there.
“Thorn,” he greeted flatly.
“Fox,” Thorn said, with a faint smirk. “Hound. Thire.”
And then—“Fid you scale my balcony again?” the senator called out, walking toward the living room.
“Technically no,” came a familiar, smug voice. “I came in the actual door this time.”
Vos was sprawled on the couch, feet up, eating something from her fruit bowl. A communicator was open in his palm.
“Kenobi says hi,” Vos added, holding up the comm.
“Why is Kenobi—” the senator stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Of course he is.”
Fox was still standing near the threshold, utterly still, face redder than a Coruscanti sunset.
Grizzer trotted up to him and finally, finally dropped the helmet at his feet like a trophy.
“Thanks,” Fox muttered.
“You’re welcome,” the senator said, tone dry.
Vos grinned. “You boys want drinks or…?”
“No,” all three clones snapped in unison.
The senator crossed her arms, her expression flat with just a hint of amusement.
“Anyone else planning to enter uninvited?” she asked. “Any Jedi lurking in the vents? More clones rappelling down from the roof?”
Vos didn’t even look up from his seat. “I think Kenobi and Cody are fine where they are,” he said casually, waving the comm. “Say hi, boys.”
“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi’s voice came through crystal-clear. “Lovely morning. Very dramatic. Please continue.”
“Cody’s listening too,” Vos added. “He’s muted. He wants the unedited drama.”
Fox closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
Meanwhile, Thire nudged Fox hard with an elbow. “You gonna tell her or not?”
“Tell her what?” Thorn asked, stepping into the living room, now actually buttoning his shirt. “We’ve all made enough of a scene this week—what’s another confession?”
Hound, in the corner, was crouched with Grizzer. “You’re on thin ice, you little thief,” he muttered as Grizzer panted happily, tongue lolling and proud of himself.
“Fox has something to say,” Thire announced helpfully, louder this time.
Fox shot him a glare that could’ve cut durasteel. “I will demote you.”
“From what?” Thire smirked. “From one of your only friends? Go ahead, Marshal Commander.”
The senator arched a brow. “You’ve been trying to tell me something, Commander?”
Fox cleared his throat, suddenly stiff. “I—it’s not exactly the right moment.”
“Oh, no, now it is,” Thorn said, folding his arms. “You ran off this morning. You stood outside the door for five minutes. You let a dog start this diplomatic crisis. Now you’re here, with an audience. No better time.”
Vos, lounging like he was poolside, grinned wider. “He’s right. Go on. Tell the pretty senator how much you want to kiss her boots or whatever it is that’s making you punch your own men in the jaw.”
“I didn’t punch him over—” Fox stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You know what? Fine.”
He stepped forward.
All the clones went quiet. Even Grizzer stopped panting.
The senator met his eyes, unreadable.
“I care about you,” Fox said, low and raw, like every word was an uphill battle. “More than I should. I’ve tried to be professional. I’ve tried to respect the fact that you’re a senator, and I’m a soldier—but I’ve failed. I’ve failed spectacularly. And I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”
Silence fell like a hammer.
Kenobi’s voice broke it.
“Finally,” he muttered. “That’s been excruciating.”
Vos cackled. “Cody says he owes me twenty credits. I told him you’d say it first.”
Fox looked like he might combust on the spot. The senator, for once, seemed genuinely speechless.
Thorn’s jaw tightened.
“So what now?” he asked, his tone flat but his eyes stormy. “You said it. What changes?”
Fox looked at him directly. “I don’t know.”
The tension in the room twisted tighter, like a drawn bow.
The senator sighed and turned away, pouring herself a drink—one for her, one for Fox, and, hesitantly, one for Thorn.
“Congratulations,” she said dryly, handing the glass to Fox. “You all ruined a perfectly quiet morning.”
Vos raised his own glass from the couch. “To chaos. And confessions.”
“Shut up, Vos,” Thorn and Fox said at the same time.
⸻
“Well,” Obi-Wan said, sipping his tea on the Temple balcony, “that was messier than I expected.”
Cody chuckled from where he leaned against the railing. “You expected something else? Fox, Thorn, a senator, a mastiff, and Vos all in one room? You should’ve known better.”
Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “I do know better. But I still hold out hope for dignity.”
Cody snorted. “No dignity left in that room. Pretty sure Vos filmed it. He’s probably editing the holo as we speak.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Obi-Wan muttered.
Cody paused, glancing down at the datapad he’d been half-scrolling through. “Honestly, I never thought Fox would crack. The man’s a walking fortress. But after everything, I guess… even he has limits.”
“Of course he does,” Obi-Wan said. “They all do. They were never meant to hold in so much for so long.”
A heavy silence settled between them, not somber—but thoughtful. Until—
“He shouldn’t be cracking.”
Both men turned their heads.
Marshal Commander Neyo had approached silently, his armor immaculate, posture as rigid as durasteel. He stood with his hands behind his back, his expression as frosted as ever.
“Fox is unfit,” Neyo said coolly. “He’s lost control of his unit, he’s fraternizing with a senator, and his judgment is compromised. He should’ve been relieved of command cycles ago.”
Cody straightened, not quite defensive yet, but no longer relaxed. “He’s had it hard, Neyo. You know that.”
“We’ve all had it hard,” Neyo snapped. “That’s not an excuse. The Guard isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t some… emotional playground. What he’s doing compromises the entire integrity of the Guard. And by extension, the Chancellor’s security.”
Obi-Wan’s brow lifted. “You’re saying a man who’s devoted his life to that very cause is now a liability because he’s caught feelings?”
“I’m saying he’s made it personal,” Neyo replied coldly. “And personal costs lives.”
Cody’s jaw tensed. “He’s not a droid, Neyo. He’s a soldier. A man. He’s not perfect, but he’s held the line longer than most of us could.”
Neyo’s expression didn’t shift. “Then maybe it’s time someone else held the line.”
He turned on his heel and walked off without another word.
Obi-Wan watched him go, then sighed into his cup. “Do you ever wonder what it would take to get Neyo to actually crack?”
Cody muttered, “Yeah. But I think even then, he’d just shatter quietly and judge everyone else for crying.”
Obi-Wan let out a soft laugh. “What about Fox?”
Cody was quiet for a beat too long. Then, with rare honesty: “He won’t shatter. He’ll burn.”
⸻
The senator hadn’t slept.
Her apartment was quiet now, the chaos from earlier a memory reduced to half-drunk tea, a discarded clone pauldron by the couch, and Vos’s lingering laughter echoing faintly in her ears. He’d long since vanished—probably off to stir up more drama with a HoloNet gossip blog or Jedi Council member who didn’t ask to be looped into romantic entanglements.
She sat curled up on the edge of her window seat, the city stretching far below, wrapped in the blue shimmer of Coruscant’s dusk.
The door chimed once.
She didn’t answer.
It slid open anyway.
“Senator,” Thorn’s voice came first, soft but firm.
She turned her head to see both of them—Thorn and Fox—standing side by side but somehow miles apart. They looked battle-ready in posture but stripped bare in the eyes. Thorn held his helmet in one hand, arms stiff at his sides. Fox stood with his arms behind his back, jaw clenched, shadows around his eyes making him look ten years older.
Neither looked like they wanted to be the one to speak first.
So she did. “If this is about earlier—”
“It is,” Fox said, cutting in, voice sharp but not cruel. “It has to be.”
Thorn glanced at him, then at her. “We can’t keep dancing around it.”
She folded her hands in her lap, brows pulling together. “I didn’t ask either of you to—”
“No,” Thorn interrupted gently. “You didn’t. But we’re here anyway.”
Fox moved a step forward, his tone tighter. “You’ve made space for both of us, and I know it wasn’t your intention, but—” He paused, exhaled hard. “It’s tearing everything apart.”
Her eyes widened, throat tightening. “Fox—”
“You have to choose,” he said flatly.
The silence afterward felt like a vacuum.
Thorn didn’t speak up to disagree.
He looked at her, gaze softer but no less serious. “I know what we’ve shared. I don’t regret any of it. But I can’t… I won’t keep putting you in the middle. Not if it’s hurting you.”
She stood slowly, her hands falling to her sides, eyes bouncing between them—Fox in his red and black, expression restrained but brimming. Thorn, still rumpled from their quiet morning, eyes carrying the weight of every soft moment they hadn’t dared name.
“I care for both of you,” she admitted, voice raw. “But this—this isn’t fair to any of us. You want me to choose like it’s easy. Like it’s a battle strategy. But this isn’t war. This is my heart.”
Fox’s jaw ticked. Thorn dropped his gaze.
“I’ve spent years making impossible decisions,” she continued. “And most of them got people killed or broken. But this? I don’t want to choose between two people who’ve risked everything to protect me. Two people I trust.” Her voice cracked. “Two people I never meant to hurt.”
Fox looked at the floor. Thorn looked away.
“I can’t choose,” she whispered. “Not now.”
Neither man spoke.
And for the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just give her an order.
⸻
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