Areyoufuckingcrazy - The Walking Apocalypse

“Crossfire” pt.7

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The camp was quiet now. The chaos had died down into murmurs, tired footsteps, the clatter of armor being stripped off and stacked beside sleeping mats. She wandered through it like a ghost, feeling out of place but… not unwelcome. Not entirely.

She spotted him near the supply crates, still in his blacks, helmet off, hair mussed from the fight. Rex looked up as she approached, his posture straightening slightly like muscle memory kicked in before the rest of him caught up.

“Hey,” she said.

He didn’t smile, but his expression softened—just enough.

“Didn’t expect you to come find me,” Rex said. “Figured you’d be off the minute your boots cooled.”

“Yeah, well…” she kicked a rock with the toe of her boot. “Running hasn’t exactly worked out great for me lately.”

Rex folded his arms, waiting.

“I wanted to check on you,” she added. “See how you were holding up. After today.”

“After everything, you mean?”

She met his eyes. “Yeah.”

There was a long pause, not uncomfortable, just… heavy. She leaned against a crate beside him and crossed her arms to match his posture, head tilted up to the stars.

“You still got that scar?” she asked casually. “The one on your jaw. From the skirmish on Felucia?”

He gave her a look. “You remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things about you, Captain.”

She offered him a crooked smirk, the kind she used to wear like armor. Playful. A little bold. A spark in the rubble.

Rex didn’t return the smile—but the way he looked at her made her throat tighten.

“You think flirting with me is going to fix this?” he asked quietly.

She lost her grin.

“No,” she said. “It’s just… easier. Than everything else.”

His shoulders dropped a little, some tension leaving his frame even if the rest stayed knotted. He didn’t look angry. Just… tired.

“I missed you,” she admitted, more earnest than she meant to be. “Even when I was running. Especially then.”

Rex looked down at her—really looked—and she saw the conflict written across his face like ink on skin.

“I didn’t know where you were,” he said, voice rough. “Didn’t know if you were alive. If you were working for the Chancellor still, if you were working for anyone. It’s hard to miss someone when you don’t know if they’re already gone.”

That one hit. She nodded, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“I was scared,” she said. “Of what I was doing. Who I was becoming. Of what you’d see if you looked at me too long.”

“I saw someone who gave a damn,” Rex said. “Still do.”

She looked at him then, and for a moment, everything else—Palpatine, the Council, Cody, the kid—blurred out into silence.

He stepped closer, just slightly. She didn’t move away.

“I’m not saying it’s fixed,” he said lowly. “But I’m still here.”

She reached out, fingertips brushing his hand, testing the water like she was scared it would burn her. He let her.

“I missed you too,” she whispered.

They stood there for a while, in that silence. The tension still coiled, still unresolved—but different now. Softer.

The kind that might, with time, unravel into something real.

⸻

The shuttle touched down on Coruscant with a low hum, metallic feet clunking into the hangar platform. The ramp hissed open, revealing the cold blue glow of the Senate District skyline in the distance. She breathed it in—familiar and suffocating all at once.

Rex had disappeared into a sea of 501st troopers. Anakin and Ahsoka had gone to debrief. The kid—the kid—was somewhere out there now, no longer hers to protect, though the phantom weight of responsibility still clung to her shoulders like wet armor.

And Cody…

Cody had been quiet the whole way back. Not cold, not rude—just restrained. Professional. Distant.

She knew that look. It was the same one she wore when she was hurt but too proud to bleed out in public.

So she went looking for him.

The GAR barracks were quiet this time of day, most men off-duty or in mess. She spotted Cody’s armor first, piled neat outside a side room, the door half-cracked. She knocked once—light—and pushed the door further open.

Cody was sitting on the edge of his bunk, bare-chested, arms braced on his knees, deep in thought. He looked up, startled at first, and then his mouth pulled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“You look like you’re about to deliver bad news,” he said, voice low and wry.

“I’m not,” she said. “I just wanted to talk.”

He nodded, gestured to the spot beside him on the bunk.

They sat in silence for a beat. The air between them tense but not hostile.

“I don’t want things to be weird,” she said. “Between us.”

“Kind of hard for them not to be,” Cody replied, tone not sharp, just… tired.

“I know,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “But I’m trying. I’m done running. I just—I want to fix things. Or at least make it so we can be in the same room without all the oxygen leaving it.”

Cody huffed a small breath. “You don’t need to fix things. Just stop acting like you can flirt your way out of every mess you cause.”

That one stung, but she accepted it.

“I know,” she said softly. “I know.”

He turned to her. His eyes didn’t hold anger. They held ache. And something else—something deeper. Something he wasn’t saying.

She opened her mouth to say more—

—and the door slammed open.

“There you are!” Quinlan Vos strode in like a tide, full of unfiltered charisma and absolutely no awareness of personal boundaries.

Obi-Wan followed, much slower, brow furrowed with concern. “Apologies for the intrusion, but we’ve been looking for you.”

Cody stood, arms folding tightly across his chest, clearly not thrilled.

She didn’t move from the bed. “I’m a little busy.”

“So it seems,” Obi-Wan remarked mildly, eyes flicking between her and Cody.

Quinlan plopped down on Cody’s empty chair like he owned the place. “The Council wants to talk. They’ve got questions. About Palpatine. About the kid. About you and your… pattern of disappearing.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m constantly on trial.”

“Because you kind of are,” Quinlan said with a grin.

Obi-Wan sighed. “We’re not your enemies. But we do need to understand why you made the choices you did.”

She stood up now, shoulders stiff. “And I’m trying to explain those choices—to the people who matter to me. But you keep showing up like two banthas at a tea party.”

Cody, behind her, almost smiled.

“Can it wait?” she asked Obi-Wan directly.

He hesitated.

“…Fine,” he said at last. “But not long.”

He and Quinlan left with far more noise than they entered.

She sighed and turned back to Cody.

“…See what I mean? Never a quiet moment.”

Cody studied her, his expression unreadable. “You don’t owe them your soul.”

“No,” she said. “But maybe I owe them a piece of the truth. Just… not before I say what I need to say to you.”

Cody gave her a slow nod. “Then say it.”

She looked at him, suddenly overwhelmed by the words that clawed to the surface.

But for once—maybe for the first time—she let them stay unspoken. Let them sit there in the space between them, heavy and real and understood.

The door had long since shut behind Obi-Wan and Quinlan, the echo of their presence still lingering. But now, it was quiet again. Just her and Cody. And the weight of what she hadn’t said.

She looked up at him, heart hammering harder than it had in any firefight.

“Cody,” she began, voice low, almost unsure. “I need to say something. And it’s not fair, but it’s honest.”

He raised a brow, still standing a few feet away. Guarded, but listening.

“I love you.”

That stopped him. His arms slowly uncrossed.

“But—” she continued before he could react, “I love Rex too.”

Cody’s face didn’t shift. Didn’t wince. Didn’t soften. Just—stilled.

She took a step closer. “And I don’t know what that says about me, or what it means, but I’m tired of pretending I only feel one thing at a time. I tried to choose. I did. But every time I think I have, I see the other one and it just—breaks something in me.”

He let out a long, quiet breath.

“I’m not asking you to be okay with it,” she added quickly. “I’m not even asking you for anything. I just needed to say it. To stop lying about how I feel and hoping it’ll get easier if I just shove it down hard enough.”

A long silence passed.

Then Cody finally spoke. “You’re right. It’s not fair.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“But it’s real.” His voice had softened, barely above a whisper. “And I’d rather have your truth than someone else’s lie.”

Tears burned her eyes, sudden and hot. She didn’t cry. Not for years. But this—this kind of vulnerability? This was harder than bleeding out in the field.

Cody stepped forward, gently touching her cheek with a calloused hand. “You deserve a love that doesn’t make you choose.”

She leaned into his touch, even as guilt twisted inside her.

“Rex deserves to hear it too,” Cody added after a beat. “But for now—just… thank you. For being honest.”

⸻

The Jedi Council chamber was quiet in the way only heavy judgment could make it.

Sunlight filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the room where the Masters sat in their semi-circle. Windu, Yoda, Plo Koon, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Luminara, Kit Fisto, and Obi-Wan.

She stood in the center, still dressed in half of her mission gear, the other half forgotten in the chaos of being summoned straight off the landing pad.

Mace Windu leaned forward first. “We appreciate your cooperation, though your presence here is long overdue.”

“I didn’t think I was a priority,” she said dryly.

“You’ve been a priority since the moment you vanished with a Force-sensitive child under mysterious circumstances,” Ki-Adi-Mundi snapped.

She raised her chin. “I didn’t kidnap him. I saved him.”

“From whom?” Luminara pressed. “From the Chancellor himself?”

“No,” she lied smoothly. “From a bounty. Someone—anonymous—put a price on the kid’s head. I took the job, found the kid, couldn’t go through with it. So I ran.”

Windu’s gaze was steel. “You expect us to believe a bounty hunter with personal access to the Chancellor just happened to take that contract?”

“I was close to Palpatine,” she admitted. “He trusted me. I never asked why. But I’m not loyal to him—not anymore. I saw enough to know I was a pawn. I just didn’t know what kind of game.”

“And the child?” Yoda asked softly.

“I gave him up. To the Republic. He’s safer now than he ever was with me. But I won’t apologize for keeping him alive.”

Kit Fisto watched her with new eyes. Quieter than before. Maybe… less suspicious. Maybe not.

“You told me once you feared the Chancellor,” Windu said, looking at her directly. “Do you still?”

“I fear what he’s capable of,” she said. “But I fear myself more. I made too many decisions in his shadow. I want to start making my own.”

The room was silent for a long moment.

Then Yoda turned to the others. “Much darkness clouds the future, but truth… glimpses of it, I sense in her words.”

Windu nodded. “We will deliberate. In the meantime, you are not to leave the planet. Is that understood?”

“Crystal,” she said, and turned to walk out, her heart thudding.

She had told some truth, enough to avoid chains—but not enough to put the game to rest. Not yet.

⸻

The summons came before sunrise.

No official escort this time. Just a short, encrypted message on her private channel—a voice she knew too well, cold and commanding:

“Come. Now.”

She hadn’t slept anyway. After the Council interrogation, after saying too much to Cody—and not enough to Rex—her nerves were frayed like wires sparking against metal.

The Senate building was quiet when she arrived, its corridors dim and eerie. Palpatine’s chambers were even darker—lit only by the soft red of Coruscanti dawn bleeding through heavy curtains and the low hum of security panels locking behind her.

He was waiting, seated in his throne-like chair, hands folded, hood drawn low over his brow.

“You lied to the Council,” he said without preamble. His tone held no accusation—only satisfaction.

She didn’t respond.

“You said nothing of my involvement. Not a single hint. You protected me.” A faint smile curled at the edges of his mouth. “That kind of loyalty is… rare.”

She shifted her weight, unsettled. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“But you did it well.” He stood slowly, walking toward her with quiet, measured steps. “The Jedi are grasping at shadows. And now they trust you just enough to leave their guard down. Perfect positioning, wouldn’t you say?”

“I didn’t come here to be your spy.”

He chuckled. “No. You came here to survive. And you’ve done that—exceptionally.”

She said nothing, jaw tight.

Palpatine clasped his hands behind his back. “The child you so kindly spared… he will serve a greater purpose than you could ever imagine. The Force hums in him—volatile, angry, raw. He will be an excellent assassin one day.”

Her throat went dry. “He’s not a weapon.”

“He’s an asset,” he corrected coolly.

“He has a name,” she snapped, louder than she meant to. “Kes. His name is Kes.”

Palpatine paused. Then, slowly, he turned to face her fully. “Names,” he said, voice lower now, more dangerous. “Names are tools. Just like loyalty. Just like you.”

Her hands curled into fists.

“I spared him,” she said, steadying her voice. “I hid him. I protected him. That doesn’t make me loyal to you.”

“No,” he said, almost fondly. “But it proves you can be used. Even against your will.”

She flinched. Because it was true.

Palpatine leaned closer, his presence overwhelming. “The boy will be trained. Molded. And when the time comes, he will take a life with his own hands. You will see.”

She met his gaze. “Over my dead body.”

The Sith Lord only smiled. “If necessary.”

⸻

She didn’t remember much of the walk back from the Senate building. The city buzzed around her, speeder traffic whipping by overhead, durasteel walkways trembling with the movement of life, but she moved through it all like a ghost.

Palpatine’s words still burned behind her eyes.

He will take a life with his own hands. You will see.

No. No, not if she could help it.

She barely registered her fists slamming against the barracks door until it opened. Rex stood there, still half-dressed in blacks and greys, fresh from training. His expression shifted from surprise to something more serious the moment he saw her face.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, pushing past him into the room.

He closed the door slowly behind her. “I figured.”

She paced the floor, hands on her hips. “I told Cody I loved him.”

Rex blinked, stiffening slightly. “Okay…”

She turned toward him, eyes sharp, voice louder now—heated. “And I love you, too. I love you, Rex. Not in some vague, flirty way. I mean it. I feel it in my chest like a damn explosion.”

He stared at her, caught off guard. “You’re angry.”

“I am angry,” she said, voice cracking. “But not at you.”

He stepped closer, expression softening as he tried to piece her together. “What’s wrong with you?”

Her mouth opened. Closed. The breath that came out after was shaky, jagged. “It’s the kid. It’s Kes. I don’t trust he’s safe.”

“I thought—he’s with the Republic now, right?”

She gave a bitter laugh. “Safe? From him?” Her voice dropped. “He wants to train him. Turn him into some twisted weapon. He called him an asset, Rex.”

Rex’s brows furrowed. “Who?”

“He’s not a tool. He’s a child. And I think… I might be the only person who can actually keep him safe.”

Rex looked at her for a long time, something unreadable in his eyes. “You still working for the Chancellor?”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not in the way I used to. But I can’t just walk away from this, not now. I know too much. And I know what he’s planning.”

Rex reached out, gently taking her arm. “Then what are you going to do?”

She looked at his hand, then into his eyes.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But whatever it is… I don’t think I’m coming back from it.”

⸻

The barracks were still, the artificial lights dimmed to simulate night. Most of the 501st were out or asleep, and for once, no one was shouting over a game of sabacc or sparring in the hall.

Rex sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, her words echoing in his skull like distant artillery.

I love you, Rex.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight. There were thousands of things he wanted to feel about it—pride, warmth, something like victory. But it came with a storm he didn’t know how to name.

She’d told Cody the same thing. She didn’t want just one of them.

He could’ve handled that. Maybe. They were soldiers—brothers—used to sharing everything. But this wasn’t a blaster or a battlefield.

This was her.

What kept him anchored to the floor, instead of pacing the room or sending a message to Cody to yell at him for no good reason, was the other thing she said. The thing that mattered more than love or jealousy or pride.

He called him an asset. I think I’m the only one who can keep him safe.

Kes. The kid. The Force-sensitive child she’d stolen, protected, run with, lied for.

And now she was talking like she’d disappear again. Like she had to.

Rex leaned back, exhaling slowly, head resting against the cool durasteel wall. He stared at the ceiling, mind ticking over the gaps. She hadn’t just been a pawn. Not really. She’d been close to Palpatine. Trusted. Useful. And now she was unraveling from the inside out, spiraling between duty, guilt, and love.

He didn’t blame her for loving Cody.

Didn’t even blame her for loving him, if he was being honest.

But what was killing him was the way she looked when she said she might not come back. Like it was already decided.

Rex sat forward again, elbows digging into his thighs. He could still smell her on his skin—warmth and dust and a hint of whatever Corellian brandy she’d drowned herself in last night.

He didn’t know what scared him more.

That she’d leave again.

Or that she wouldn’t.

And when she finally did make her move—when she ran headfirst into whatever hell she was walking toward—he wasn’t sure if he’d chase after her, or let her go.

But he was sure of one thing.

She didn’t have to face it alone.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

⸻

Cody stood in the shadow of the veranda outside the Jedi Temple. It was late. Not quite night, not quite morning—the sky caught in that soft, silver pre-dawn hue. And Coruscant, the city that never truly slept, hummed below like it didn’t care about anyone’s heartbreak.

He hadn’t gone back to his quarters. Couldn’t. Not after what she’d said.

I love you.

And then—I love Rex too.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the railing, the wind tugging at the edges of his armour.

The words weren’t what haunted him. Not really. He knew her. Knew how fiercely she loved—how wildly her loyalty curved into everything she touched. Of course she’d fall for Rex too. Of course it wouldn’t be clean, or easy, or fair.

He didn’t even blame her for it.

But it stung, deeper than blaster fire. Not because she loved them both—but because even now, after everything, she still looked like she was halfway out the door. Like her mind had already started packing bags she didn’t plan to unpack again.

Kes.

Cody’s fingers flexed on the railing.

The boy’s name hadn’t been spoken when she’d told her lie to the Council—but he’d heard the truth in her voice, beneath every beat of it. She’d kept him alive. Protected him. Cared for him in a way no bounty hunter had any right to.

Palpatine’s orders or not, she’d chosen the kid. Chosen to lie, run, risk everything.

That terrified him.

Because if she was willing to walk away from him for the kid… she’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

And he didn’t know if he could survive her leaving twice.

He exhaled slowly, the wind catching the breath like smoke. He could see himself from the outside—Commander Cody, poised, sharp, unreadable. A model soldier.

But inside? He was chaos.

He wanted to go to her room. Say something—anything. Ask her to choose him. Or don’t. Or promise to come back. Or stay.

But he wouldn’t beg.

She had enough people trying to pull her in opposite directions. She didn’t need another weight on her shoulders.

Still… he couldn’t help but wonder if she was thinking about him now. If she was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, just as lost.

Don’t run again, he thought. Not from this. Not from me.

And if she did?

He’d find her.

And bring her home himself.

⸻

The air in her apartment was heavy.

It was always quiet before a storm. Before chaos. Before death.

She moved like a shadow, deliberate and silent, pulling her gear piece by piece from beneath the floorboards. Her knives. Her blaster. Her comm jammer. Her datapad with every possible layout of the facility burned into its memory.

She was going in alone.

There was no other way.

Kes was being held somewhere deep within the restricted levels of the Republic Intelligence Annex—a place so far off the grid it didn’t technically exist. He hadn’t shown up on any of the usual rosters. No holos. No files. Just whispers. Rumors.

She didn’t trust anyone else to get him out.

And the Chancellor… Palpatine.

She didn’t care if it was madness. She didn’t care if it meant her own death. The moment he’d looked at Kes like he was a tool, a weapon, an asset, something in her broke.

She wasn’t a Jedi. She didn’t have to play by their rules.

She’d already made up her mind.

The door panel chirped, breaking the silence.

She froze.

One hand gripped the vibroblade still resting on the kitchen bench. Her heart pounded hard, but her face remained unreadable.

Another chime. This time more insistent.

She took a breath. Stepped toward the door.

It slid open.

And there they were.

Cody. Rex.

She should’ve known.

Both of them stood just outside, dressed like they hadn’t had time to change out of their armor. Faces hard, eyes flicking past her to the gear stacked on the counter behind her.

Cody spoke first. “You’re leaving.”

She didn’t answer. Not with words. She turned her back on them both, walking toward her gear like she hadn’t just been caught mid-plan.

“I don’t have time to explain,” she said as she fastened her utility belt.

“We figured,” Rex said. “So explain on the way.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp, steel underneath. “You don’t get to follow me this time.”

Cody stepped inside. “We didn’t follow you. We found you. Big difference.”

She spun, eyes locking onto Cody. “You don’t get to be the voice of reason right now, Cody. Not when I’m going to kill your Chancellor.”

The silence hit like a thermal detonator.

Rex looked at her like he hadn’t expected to hear her say it aloud.

Cody didn’t flinch.

“I’m going to get Kes out,” she said, quieter now. “And then I’m going to end this. Before it starts.”

“You think assassinating the Chancellor is going to stop what’s coming?” Rex’s voice was tight. “Do you even know what that’ll unleash?”

“I don’t care,” she snapped. “He’s using that kid. He’s manipulating all of us. And the longer I wait, the worse it gets.”

Cody took a single step closer. Not threatening—just there. Solid. Like he always was.

“You’ll die,” he said. “You know that, right?”

She nodded. “I made peace with that a long time ago.”

Rex stepped forward now, voice low, fierce. “Then let us help. Let us at least stand with you.”

She stared at them both. Her throat tightened.

She wanted to say yes. Stars, she wanted to say yes so badly.

But—

“If either of you die because of me,” she said, “I’ll never forgive myself.”

“We’re soldiers,” Cody said. “We’ve already made peace with dying.”

“But not with you dying alone,” Rex added.

The silence stretched long. Her eyes burned.

She turned away, back to her weapons. She was shaking, just slightly.

And then… she spoke.

“No.”

They both stilled.

She faced them now, eyes sharper than either had ever seen. “I can’t let either of you come with me.”

“Why?” Rex asked. “Because it’s dangerous? We live in danger. That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not about danger,” she said. Her voice cracked, just slightly. “It’s about you. About him. About both of you. I love you—both of you—and I will not be the reason your stories end in a hallway you were never meant to be in.”

Cody stepped closer. “That’s not your choice to make.”

“It is this time,” she said. “Because if I lose either of you, I don’t just lose a soldier. I lose the only damn thing I’ve got left in this kriffed-up galaxy.”

Neither of them spoke.

And then, gently, she picked up her blaster, slid it into its holster, and looked at them for what might’ve been the last time.

“You don’t have to understand it,” she said. “Just… let me do this. Alone.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t want to hear them fight her on it.

She just stepped out the back door, into the night.

And left them both behind.

⸻

She didn’t go to the facility alone.

Not exactly.

She had a contact.

Someone who didn’t care for the Republic, the Jedi, or much of anything beyond credits and personal satisfaction.

Cad Bane.

She hated him.

He’d say the feeling was mutual.

But she also knew he’d show up if the job was dirty enough, personal enough—and promised to make things just complicated enough to be interesting.

So, when she stood in the shadows near the Coruscant underworld comm relay, keyed in the frequency and said nothing but “I’m cashing it in”, there was a beat of silence, followed by his dry, smug voice.

“Took you long enough. Where’s the target?”

She sent him the encrypted drop zone coordinates, along with a note:

If I’m not there by this time tomorrow, I’m dead. Take the kid somewhere safe.

He didn’t respond. That meant he understood.

She climbed the side of the Republic Intelligence Annex like she had done it a thousand times before.

Because she had.

Not this exact building, no. But enough like it. Enough to know how their sensor blind spots layered. Enough to know the door panels ran off an old auxiliary power line she could override with a reprogrammed comlink. Enough to slip past the outer perimeter before anyone ever saw her coming.

The inside was colder. Cleaner. Sharp-edged metal and flickering overhead lights. It wasn’t meant to feel human. It was meant to strip identity. The place was surgical in its cruelty.

She moved like smoke. Swift. Silent. Lethal.

Floor by floor, she moved through the corridors.

Until she saw it.

The hallway. The black-glass door with the lock system coded to bioscans. The child’s name wasn’t on any sign, but she knew he was behind it.

She cracked her knuckles, pulled a thumb-sized detonator from her belt, and slipped it into the seam of the scanner.

A flicker. A soft click. And then—

Boom.

The door gave.

She sprinted in through smoke and static.

There he was.

Kes.

Slumped on the floor, eyes wide, body curled up like he was used to expecting violence. His force signature was alive—but dimmed. Buried.

She dropped to her knees and pulled him into her arms.

He looked up at her. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Not yet.”

She took out a stimpak and injected it into his arm. “We have to move. Can you walk?”

He nodded. She didn’t wait. She pulled him to his feet and wrapped his small arm around her neck.

The sirens started.

Of course they did.

Guards stormed the lower halls.

Blaster fire lit up behind them, but she didn’t stop. She ran, dragging the kid through maintenance shafts, down an auxiliary lift, bursting into the speeder bay just in time to hijack a transport and shoot out into the traffic lanes above the city.

She weaved and twisted through Coruscant’s sky, sirens behind her, and a fragile hope burning in her chest.

Kes was safe.

For now.

They landed in a scrap yard on the edge of the underworld district, just near the slums. The air was thick with fuel and metal and smoke. She tucked Kes behind a decaying repulsor rig and handed him a stolen ration bar.

“If I don’t come back by tomorrow,” she said, crouching beside him, “Cad Bane will find you. He has the coordinates. You run. You survive. You hear me?”

“You’re not gonna die,” Kes whispered.

She smirked faintly. “Kid, I’ve been trying to die for years. But you… you’re different. You’ve got a future.”

She squeezed his shoulder, then vanished into the shadows.

She had one more stop to make.

And Palpatine wouldn’t see it coming.

⸻

She didn’t knock.

She didn’t need to.

The side entrance to the Chancellor’s private chambers peeled open after her third override attempt, a hiss of smoke and whirring gears inviting her into the lion’s den. Every step she took echoed like thunder through the polished marbled halls, golden-red light casting long, terrible shadows over everything.

It felt wrong.

He wasn’t supposed to be alone.

He never was.

But the throne sat empty in the center of the chamber—its occupant standing by the wide viewport, hands clasped behind his back, city lights dancing across his reflection.

“You’re late,” Palpatine said without turning.

She drew her blaster.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t hesitate.

She fired.

The bolt twisted in midair—curved—like the space between her and him had turned to oil. It splashed against the wall, leaving a crater, and Palpatine finally turned to face her, slow and measured.

He was smiling.

“Predictable,” he whispered.

Lightning surged from his fingers before she could blink.

It hit her like a wrecking ball.

She hit the ground screaming, bones screaming with her. Her blaster flew out of reach. Her limbs convulsed—vision swimming. The pain was like drowning in fire.

“You think yourself above your role? A pawn with a little sentiment?” Palpatine hissed, walking toward her, cloak dragging behind him like smoke.

He leaned down.

“I gave you purpose. I gave you everything.”

Her hand slipped to her boot. Blade.

“You gave me rot,” she spat, and slashed.

The blade caught his cheek.

He didn’t even flinch.

But he bled.

That was enough.

He threw her across the room with a flick of his wrist. She shattered a statue. She couldn’t breathe.

The alarms began to blare.

Corrie Guard. Jedi. Everyone was coming.

“You won’t get far,” he said, voice like thunder, like prophecy. “Run, girl. Run until the stars burn out. They’ll all be hunting you now.”

She didn’t answer.

She crawled, dragged herself to her feet, one hand clutching her ribs. She didn’t even remember how she escaped—smoke bombs, a hidden exit route, a chase through skylanes with every siren screaming her name. The Guard was relentless. She saw Cody. She saw Fox. She even saw Kit—his face torn between duty and disbelief.

She didn’t have time to process it.

She just ran.

By the time she reached the rendezvous point—blood in her mouth, cloak torn, and the weight of failure dragging behind her like a corpse—Cad Bane was already there. So was Kes.

“You look like hell,” Bane drawled.

“Bite me,” she rasped, grabbing Kes’s hand. “We’re leaving.”

Bane handed her coordinates to a small craft already programmed and pre-fueled. She didn’t say thank you. He didn’t expect it.

They jumped into hyperspace an hour later.

⸻

The stars faded into the dusty pink of dawn as they crested over the hill that led to the farm.

It hadn’t changed.

Still crooked fences. Still half-dead crops. Still peace in its imperfection.

Kes looked up at her, his big eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

“Why the farm?” he asked softly.

She breathed in the air, cracked and burned and hers.

“We have our Loth cat to find,” she said.

Kes blinked. “That’s… that’s it?”

She half-smiled. “It’s as good a reason as any.”

The war had followed her.

Death had nearly claimed her.

But for now, in this quiet stretch of forgotten land, with the boy she’d risked everything for beside her, she finally let herself breathe.

Just once.

Before the storm returned.

⸻

The silence in the Jedi High Council chamber was so dense it felt like suffocation.

The doors had shut behind Master Windu with a hiss. He remained standing for a moment before stepping into the center, his brow tight with what could only be called restrained fury. Around him, the Masters sat in their usual solemn arrangement—Yoda, Obi-Wan, Plo Koon, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Shaak Ti, Kit Fisto, and the rest. The air was thick with tension, laced with the sharp edges of disbelief and bitter revelation.

“She tried to kill the Chancellor,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said first. Cold. Certain. “This is beyond treason. It’s an act of war.”

“She also escaped,” Master Shaak Ti added, her voice quieter, more contemplative. “From a secure facility. With a child Palpatine has repeatedly refused to explain.”

“The same child she risked her life to hide for months,” Kit said calmly, though his gaze flickered toward Yoda, seeking his temperature on this. “She did not kill him. She ran. Hid. Protected him.”

“She lied to this Council,” Mundi snapped. “On multiple occasions.”

“As do many who fear the truth will be used against them,” Kit countered.

Windu raised a hand. Silence reclaimed the room.

Obi-Wan leaned forward then, voice calm but lined with suspicion. “What was she doing in the Chancellor’s private tower in the first place? Without clearance. Without authorization.”

“She was summoned,” Windu answered.

That landed like a blow.

Even Yoda stirred at that, tapping his gimer stick once against the floor. “Truth, this is?”

Windu nodded once. “The Chancellor requested her presence. Privately. No report filed. No witnesses. Just hours before the attempt.”

A heavy silence followed.

“She did not go there to kill him,” Kit said. “Not originally.”

“She still tried,” Plo Koon said softly. “But perhaps not without cause.”

Yoda closed his eyes. For a moment, the ancient Jedi looked every bit as old as the war.

“Seen much, we have. But seen enough, we have not.”

“Agreed,” Windu said. “The fact that she is still alive… it complicates this. If she had truly wanted him dead, if she had planned this with precision—she wouldn’t have failed.”

“She wasn’t aiming to succeed,” Obi-Wan murmured. “She was desperate.”

“And she escaped with the child,” Shaak Ti added. “Which the Chancellor has referred to, multiple times, as an asset. Not a person.”

Yoda’s eyes opened.

“Uncover the truth, we must. Speak to the Chancellor… again, we shall.”

Mundi stood, disbelief etched across his face. “You cannot be suggesting that he is the problem.”

Yoda met his gaze.

“The Force suggests… many things.”

⸻

The barracks were quiet for once. No drills, no blaster fire, no shouting across bunks. Just the buzz of overhead lights and the low hum of Coruscant’s cityscape outside the narrow windows.

Cody sat on the edge of a durasteel bench, still in partial armor, helmet discarded at his feet. He hadn’t spoken in what felt like an hour.

Rex stood nearby, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly. There was a long, bitter silence between them—one that came after too many emotions had been left unsaid for far too long.

“She almost died,” Rex said finally, voice low.

“She should be dead,” Cody answered without looking at him. “Attempting to assassinate the Chancellor? Alone? That’s suicide.”

“She’s alive,” Rex replied, softer now. “But she ran. Again.”

Cody let out a tired exhale, dragging a hand through his short hair. “She always runs.”

There was no malice in his voice. Just grief.

They were quiet again before Cody finally broke it.

“You loved her.”

Rex didn’t flinch. “Yeah. You did too.”

Cody nodded once, jaw tight. “I kept telling myself it was duty. Obsession. That I could let her go. But I never really wanted to.”

Rex stared at the floor. “She told me she loved me. Right before she disappeared.”

“She told me the same.” Cody gave a humorless laugh. “Then said she wanted both of us.”

Rex looked up. Their eyes met, and for the first time, neither of them looked away.

“And if things were different?” Rex asked.

Cody shook his head. “If things were different, we wouldn’t be in this war. We wouldn’t be soldiers. She wouldn’t be a target. That kid wouldn’t be hunted.”

Silence again.

“She was trying to do the right thing,” Rex said. “Even when it meant becoming the villain in everyone’s eyes.”

“Even ours,” Cody added quietly. “And now she’s out there. Hunted. Alone. Again.”

Rex stepped forward, tension rolling off him like a crashing tide. “I want to go after her.”

“So do I,” Cody said, standing.

The two commanders stared at one another—two halves of the same loyalty.

But they both knew the truth: chasing her meant turning against everything they’d been raised to serve.

The Republic. The Jedi. The Chancellor.

Everything.

“She’s worth it,” Rex said eventually.

Cody didn’t answer right away.

But the look in his eyes said everything.

⸻

The Chancellor’s office was dimmed, blinds drawn. Only Coruscant’s dull, flickering lights spilled shadows against the walls, mixing with the warm glow of red and gold decor.

Palpatine sat with folded hands, the lines in his face calm, unreadable.

Mace Windu stood at the center of the room, flanked by Yoda and Ki-Adi-Mundi. Plo Koon lingered near the window. Kit Fisto remained closer to the rear, saying nothing, watching everything.

“She nearly assassinated you,” Windu said. “And yet you still refuse to pursue her with the full force of the Republic?”

Palpatine offered a diplomatic smile. “She was misguided. Broken. This was the action of a lost, frightened woman.”

“Frightened women don’t break into highly classified facilities with bounty hunters and walk out with a Force-sensitive child,” Ki-Adi-Mundi cut in.

“Nor do they try to kill the Supreme Chancellor,” Windu added.

“Attempt to,” Palpatine corrected softly.

The silence that followed was sharp.

“Tell us, Chancellor,” Yoda finally spoke, his voice calm but piercing. “This woman. Long known to you, she is. Trusted her, you have. But trust her still, do you?”

Palpatine’s eyes narrowed slightly. “She was once loyal. Brave. Unafraid to do what others would not. I used her, yes. But perhaps I was mistaken in believing she could survive the strain of such secrets.”

“Secrets you still refuse to share,” Kit spoke for the first time. “You gave her access to military intel. Brought her into council-level missions. And yet she was never a Jedi, never Republic command, never even vetted. Why?”

Palpatine’s expression darkened, just for a moment. “Because she was effective. Because she could go where others could not. Because she understood what was at stake.”

“And now?” Windu asked.

“She’s dangerous,” Palpatine answered flatly. “And broken. Likely unstable. If she comes for the child again, she will be dealt with accordingly.”

“The child is safe now,” Yoda said.

“Is he?” Palpatine asked mildly. “With a mark on his back and half the galaxy looking for him?”

“You put that mark on him,” Windu said. “You sent her after him to begin with.”

For a moment, silence cracked like ice between them.

Palpatine didn’t blink. “That accusation is as reckless as it is unfounded.”

“We’re done playing blind,” Kit said. “You’ve kept her under your protection long enough. Whatever game you were playing, it’s cost lives.”

Palpatine stood. “I have no more information to offer you. If she resurfaces, she will be arrested. Until then, the matter is closed.”

The Jedi exchanged glances.

But no one believed that.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

say it with me now:

wrecker👏is👏not👏stupid👏

he is actually pretty smart, you don’t become a demolitions expert without being smart

he is also like 100% the most emotionally intelligent of the entire batch

just because he has a childlike wonder and love of life doesn’t mean he’s dumb

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.7

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The Chancellor’s office was colder than it looked. Gilded in gold trim, with its long shadows and false warmth, it resembled a sunlit cage. The senator stood before the central desk, flanked by two members of the Coruscant Guard—Commander Fox at her right, another clone at her back.

Fox hadn’t spoken to her since the leak.

He hadn’t even looked at her unless it was protocol.

The Chancellor, however, looked very much at her. With studied eyes and fingers steepled beneath his chin, he regarded her as though calculating the weight of a weapon he wasn’t quite sure how to use yet.

“The leaks,” he began slowly, “have caused quite the stir.”

“I’m aware,” she said, tone even. “I’ve been called a few new things today.”

“The term war criminal certainly has… gravity.”

She didn’t flinch. “So does survivor.”

Palpatine’s smile was almost affectionate. Almost.

“I don’t often indulge sentiment,” he said, “but I must admit, I’ve always admired survivors. Those who understand that mercy is a luxury afforded only after the enemy is dead. It is… unfortunate the galaxy doesn’t share my appreciation.”

She didn’t trust the glint in his eye. But she nodded anyway.

“Let’s speak plainly, shall we?” he said, leaning forward. “You are now the most scandalous figure in the Senate. Some believe that makes you dangerous. Others think it makes you untouchable. Personally, I think it makes you useful—in the right context.”

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t like being cornered.

“Useful for what, exactly?”

Palpatine smiled. “For influence. Fear, my dear Senator, is a currency. You’ve just been handed a vault.”

Behind her, Fox shifted ever so slightly. No words, but his presence pulled taut like a tripwire.

She glanced at him—his stance rigid, eyes hidden behind the dark visor. But he was watching. Listening. She could feel the judgment simmering beneath the armor.

“You didn’t bring me here for punishment,” she said slowly. “You brought me here to see if I could still be an asset.”

Palpatine gave a light, rasping chuckle. “Punishment is such a crude concept. No—what I want is assurance.”

“Of what?”

“That you won’t break. That you won’t run. That you can hold your seat without crumbling under the weight of your history.”

“I’ve held worse,” she said.

“And if the press or your colleagues push harder?”

She stepped forward, spine straight, voice low.

“Then I remind them that the only reason they’re standing in that chamber and not buried in an unmarked field is because people like me did what they couldn’t stomach.”

Fox’s head turned slightly—just slightly.

Palpatine smiled wider. “Good. Very good.”

He turned to Fox next. “Marshal Commander, I trust you’ve prepared contingency security protocols?”

“Yes, sir,” Fox answered, voice sharp as durasteel. “Her safety is covered from every angle.”

“Excellent. Then I believe we’re done.”

As she turned to leave, Fox fell into step behind her. Not beside her—behind. Like she was no longer something to walk beside, but something to guard from a distance.

The silence between them lasted until the lift doors sealed them inside.

She finally spoke.

“Do you believe it?” she asked, eyes forward.

There was a long pause.

“I believe you’re dangerous,” Fox said flatly. “But I always did.”

Her breath caught.

“And I believe,” he added quietly, “you’re the only senator in that building I’d trust to walk through hell and come out standing.”

She turned her head toward him, heart twisting in place.

His gaze didn’t meet hers. But his hand briefly, subtly, shifted just an inch closer—close enough to brush against hers before pulling away again.

⸻

The Grand Convocation Chamber thrummed with tension. Senators filled the tiers like birds on a wire, whispering, watching, waiting. The galactic newsfeeds were still hot with headlines. The holo-screens didn’t let her forget:

“War Criminal in the Senate?”

“Senator’s Bloodied Past Revealed in Classified Data Dump”

“Hero or Butcher? Galactic Public Reacts to Senator’s Dark War Record.”

And she stood in the eye of the storm, on the central speaking platform—small beneath the towering dome, but with every eye in the room on her.

Her hands didn’t shake. Not this time.

“Senators,” she began, voice calm, every syllable measured. “I will speak today not to deny what you’ve read, nor to ask for your forgiveness. I will speak to remind you what war does to people, to nations, to souls.”

The chamber quieted, the usual interjections or scoffs absent for once.

“When my planet was at war, we weren’t fighting over trade routes or petty disputes. We were fighting because our people had nothing left to eat. Because homes were burning. Because leaders had abandoned us. And because in the ashes of desperation, monsters rose wearing familiar flags.”

Her gaze rose to the tiers. She didn’t read from a datapad. Her words came from memory—etched into her spine like every scar she didn’t show.

“We did what we had to do. I did what I had to do.”

There were murmurs from a few senators—others still whispered behind data tablets.

She pressed forward.

“I’ve read the headlines. I know what they’re calling me now. War criminal. Executioner. Deceiver. I’m not here to rewrite history to make myself more palatable. I’m here to explain why.”

A flicker of movement in the Guard section. Fox stood rigid. Thorn just beside him, jaw locked, eyes shadowed. Hound and Stone were in the perimeter, unreadable. Vos, of course, had chosen a front-row seat among the Jedi delegation, grinning faintly.

“Have any of you ever been on the ground in a war zone?” she asked. “Not from a ship, not through a report, but in the mud, where every face you see might be the last one you ever do?”

Silence.

“I’ve made decisions that I’ll carry for the rest of my life. I’ve given orders I wish I never had to. But those decisions saved my people. My world stands united today because I chose resolve over ruin. I chose to wear the weight of history instead of letting it crush the next generation.”

She turned slightly.

“There was a time even my own people branded me a war criminal. They painted my name across memorials as if I was a villain. And I accepted that pain, because in time… they saw what I had done. They saw peace take root.”

She breathed deeply. Her voice softened, but carried more strength in that hush than in any shout.

“Now I fight for them in a different war. Not with a rifle. Not with deception. But with my voice. In these chambers. I will not run from my past. I will not be ashamed of the blood I spilt to protect my home.”

One senator stood—Bail Organa, his expression grim but respectful.

“She has the floor,” he said, shooting down an attempted interruption from Orn Free Taa.

Mon Mothma sat in contemplative stillness. Padmé’s eyes shone with restrained emotion. Others watched with wary curiosity, some with disdain.

At the Chancellor’s podium, Palpatine remained motionless. He looked pleased—like someone watching a rare animal prove its worth in the wild.

“I came to this Senate to make sure no one else has to make the decisions I did,” the senator finished. “So the next child born on my world doesn’t grow up hearing bombs in the distance. So they never have to wear my scars. That’s what I stand for now. And I won’t apologize for surviving.”

A beat of silence.

Then, scattered applause. Hesitant. Then stronger. Not unanimous—but it didn’t need to be. It was enough.

In the gallery, Thorn exhaled through his nose, shoulders sinking like a tension cord had snapped loose. Fox remained motionless, helmet still tucked under one arm—but his eyes tracked her every movement, his jaw clenched tight.

Later, as the senators filed out, murmuring amongst themselves, Palpatine spoke to Mas Amedda in a hushed aside, lips curling faintly.

“She’s more useful than I thought.”

Vos caught Thorn’s shoulder in the corridor and whispered, “Your war criminal’s got a spine of durasteel. I’d be careful with that.”

Thorn didn’t answer.

Fox lingered behind as she left the chamber. Just close enough for her to feel it.

The storm wasn’t over. But she’d stood in it without flinching.

And some storms change the shape of entire worlds.

⸻

The briefing room tucked behind the Coruscant Guard’s barracks was dimly lit, blue holoscreens casting flickers over the faces of the commanders seated around the central table. The atmosphere was thick—less with the weight of military protocol and more with something unsaid.

Commander Stone was the first to break the silence, arms crossed over his chest. “So… it’s true then. She did all that. And now it’s on every damn channel.”

“She did what she had to do,” Thorn said flatly, from where he leaned back in his seat. “None of us were there.”

Fox didn’t look at him. He was focused on the holo-feed looping headlines and excerpts from the senator’s public speech. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind tight lips.

“She’s not hiding it,” Hound added, Grizzer resting his massive head in the man’s lap. “That counts for something.”

“Counts for more than most around here,” Thire muttered.

Stone raised an eyebrow. “You lot thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking she’s more of a soldier than half the senators we’ve ever had to babysit,” Hound said, scratching behind Grizzer’s ears, “then yeah.”

Thorn exhaled, sharp. “I already knew there was something in her. You don’t carry yourself like that unless you’ve seen real battle. Felt real loss.”

Fox finally spoke. “What else do we know?”

The question was hard, calculated, detached—but Thorn’s gaze snapped to him anyway. “About her? Or about your jealousy?”

The room tensed. Even Grizzer lifted his head.

Fox turned to Thorn at last, expression unreadable. “Careful, Commander.”

“You’re not my General,” Thorn said coolly, but the bite was real.

“But I am your superior.”

Stone cleared his throat loudly, trying to cut through the heat. “We all saw how she handled the Senate. That was command presence. Controlled the room like a field op. And she didn’t flinch when they threw her to the wolves.”

Fox leaned over the holotable, voice low. “She’s not just some politician anymore. The whole damn galaxy sees it. That makes her a target in more ways than one.”

“She always was,” Thorn said.

Another stare between the two men. Hound’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, and he muttered under his breath to Grizzer, “We’re going to need a bigger distraction than you, buddy.”

Thire shook his head. “Point is, the leak backfired. She came out stronger. People are backing her now. Some senators are scared. Some want her silenced.”

Fox folded his arms. “So we protect her.”

“You mean you protect her?” Thorn asked, tone lighter but laced with that edge only soldiers could hear.

Fox didn’t answer.

Hound stood. “Alright. This is heading somewhere messy. Let’s not forget, we’re not in the field. We’re on Coruscant. We do our jobs. We don’t let personal feelings get in the way.”

But even as he said it, no one met each other’s eyes.

Because personal feelings had already breached the perimeter.

And everyone knew it.

⸻

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Obi-Wan said, cradling a mug of something strong enough to pass for caf, though it smelled more like fermented spice.

Vos smirked, lounging back on the armrest of a couch in Kenobi’s Coruscant quarters, one boot kicked up on the low table between them. “Oh, come on. It’s not every day I get to see two commanders practically lose their minds over a senator.”

Obi-Wan arched a brow. “They’re not losing their minds. They’re… protective.”

“Protective?” Vos laughed. “You didn’t see Fox after the hearing. Man looked like someone had kicked his speeder and insulted his genetics in the same breath.”

Kenobi sipped from his mug. “I saw the footage. She handled it well.”

Vos’s grin softened, just a bit. “Yeah. She did. Same way she handled that siege back on her planet. No one expected her to hold that ridge—hell, even I doubted she would. But she did. She held the line until we got there. Lost half her unit doing it.”

Obi-Wan nodded slowly. “You never said much about that campaign.”

“Because she didn’t want anyone to,” Vos replied. “Told me once that her victories came at the price of becoming something she didn’t recognize in the mirror. Said peace didn’t clean blood from your hands, only buried it.”

Silence passed between them.

Then Obi-Wan spoke, quieter now. “Do you think the leak will change her?”

Vos exhaled, dragging a hand through his long hair. “No. But it’ll change how others see her. And she’ll see that. She’ll feel it. Same way we did after Geonosis, or Umbara, or… hell, pick a battlefield.”

“She’s not a Jedi, Quinlan. She doesn’t have the Code to fall back on.”

Vos shrugged. “That might be what saves her.”

Kenobi set his cup down. “And what exactly do you think I can do for her?”

“You’re already doing it,” Vos said, stretching. “You’re one of the only people left she still trusts. And the clones? They’re going to tear each other apart if someone doesn’t get them back in line.”

Obi-Wan frowned. “You’re the one who stirred the pot, Quinlan.”

Vos stood and headed for the door with a grin. “Yeah. But you’re the one who has to keep it from boiling over.”

Kenobi watched him go, sighing softly before turning to the window. Below, Coruscant’s cityscape blinked like starlight trapped in durasteel. The senator’s voice echoed in his mind—measured, passionate, defiant.

A war hero. A survivor. And now, a symbol caught in the middle of something neither of them could fully control.

And Quinlan Vos, as always, had thrown kindling on an already smoldering fire.

⸻

The message blinked on her datapad:

[VOS]: Hey, sunshine. We need to talk. Open your door before I decide to climb something I probably shouldn’t.

She stared at it, lips pressed in a flat line. The datapad dimmed after a moment of her not responding.

“No,” she muttered to herself, tossing the device onto the couch as she stepped into her modest apartment’s kitchen. She wasn’t in the mood for Vos’ brand of chaos—not tonight. Not after the day she’d had.

She barely made it through pouring a glass of water before—

BANG BANG BANG!

Her eyes snapped to the glass doors leading out to the balcony.

Another loud knock. BANG!

Then came the muffled but unmistakable voice of Jedi Master Quinlan Vos.

“I know you saw my message! Don’t ignore me, Senator, I scaled four levels of durasteel infrastructure to get up here!”

She groaned, pressing her forehead to a cabinet door. “Force help me.”

She crossed the apartment with an air of reluctant resignation and unlocked the balcony door. Vos was standing there, slightly winded but grinning as if he’d just dropped by for tea.

“You’re lucky I didn’t stun you through the glass,” she said, stepping aside.

Vos strolled in like he owned the place. “You wouldn’t have. I’m far too charming.”

“You’re far too irritating.”

He smirked, shrugging off the slight. “That too.”

She folded her arms. “What do you want, Vos?”

He grew more serious at that, the mischief retreating just slightly from his expression. “I want to know how you’re holding up. And I figured you wouldn’t actually answer that unless I forced my way onto your balcony.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t deny it.

“Listen,” Vos said, voice lower now, “I know what it feels like when your past catches up. You think it’s going to rip away everything you’ve built. But it won’t. Not unless you let it.”

She turned away, facing the cityscape, arms still wrapped around herself. “You saw the looks in the rotunda. They’re not going to forget. They’re not supposed to.”

“They’re not supposed to forgive either,” Vos said quietly. “But some of them will. Especially the ones that matter.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then: “Did you say anything to Fox or Thorn?”

Vos leaned on the balcony rail beside her. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Her gaze cut sideways toward him. “Vos.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to give a political answer.”

“I swear, if you meddled—”

“I didn’t tell them the whole truth. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. Most of it’s still classified… even to me.”

“But you were there.”

“I was. And I saw you do what needed doing when no one else had the spine.”

She didn’t reply.

“I’m not here to dig,” Vos said, standing upright again. “Just to remind you that you didn’t survive that war to start hiding again now.”

She looked at him then, eyes hard but grateful.

“Fine,” she said at last. “You can stay for a drink. One.”

He grinned. “See? I am charming.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Hi, me again! Could I request a comfort fic with either Rex, Fox, or Echo? This last week has been so hard with my depression- where everyday tasks, like getting ready for work, feel overwhelming. I love your stories; they are the literary equivalent of a mug of tea and a cozy blanket.

Thank you so much —it truly means the world to me. I really appreciate and am touched that my stories could bring a little comfort for you during a tough time. I hope the following is what you wanted and brings a bit of comfort xo

⸻

“Safe With You”

Echo x Reader

The hum of the Marauder was a soft lull in the background, like a lullaby Echo had never known he needed. You sat curled in a blanket on the makeshift bench-seat of the ship’s common area, half-asleep but unwilling to move to your bunk just yet. It wasn’t just the nightmares. It was the quiet loneliness that always settled too deep in your bones after the lights dimmed.

Footsteps echoed—soft but mechanical—and you already knew it was him.

Echo always walked like he didn’t want to be noticed. Like maybe the durasteel in his limbs made him take up too much space. But to you, he never felt like too much. He felt like safety.

“Can’t sleep again?” his voice was a quiet murmur, meant for you alone.

You opened your eyes and gave him a small, sheepish smile. “Was just… thinking.”

He tilted his head as he sat across from you, his cybernetic hand resting on the edge of the bench. “Thinking, huh? Dangerous pastime.”

“Yeah, well, I’m known for my recklessness,” you said, trying to joke, but it came out thin.

Echo’s eyes softened as he looked at you, shadows under his own eyes betraying he hadn’t had much rest either. The war had ended, but peace still felt like a foreign language.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he said gently, glancing down. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You blinked a few times. No one had said that to you in a long time. Not like that. Not like they meant it.

“I’m tired of being strong all the time,” you admitted, voice small. “It’s like… the second I stop, everything I’ve been holding up comes crashing down.”

Echo didn’t say anything for a moment, and then he stood—tall, quiet—and crossed to your side. He sat down beside you on your bed, shoulder to shoulder, warm despite the metal. Without asking, he pulled the blanket over the both of you.

You leaned into him, and he let you.

“You don’t have to hold everything up,” he said, pressing his forehead gently to yours. “I’ve got you.”

Your breath hitched, and when your hand found his— you felt the weight of the world ease off your chest, even just a little.

“I feel safe with you,” you whispered.

Echo smiled, barely there but real. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was soft—like a warm blanket pulled over the both of you, tighter than the one wrapped around your shoulders.

Echo leaned into the wall behind him, tugging you along with him so that your head rested just over his heart. It beat steady under your cheek, a gentle rhythm that grounded you more than you expected.

“I used to hate the quiet,” he said, his voice low, like he was afraid to wake the stars outside the viewport. “When I was in the Citadel, then with the Techno Union… silence meant something bad was coming. I’d brace for pain, or for someone to take another piece of me away.”

Your arms tightened around his waist, your hand resting on the seam where flesh met metal.

“But now,” he continued, fingers lightly stroking your shoulder through the blanket, “it’s different. Now it’s just… peace. You make the silence feel safe.”

You didn’t trust your voice, so you nodded against him, letting his words settle into you like rain on parched ground.

A moment passed. Then another. Your breathing slowed, syncing with his. The last remnants of your anxiety started to unwind, like frayed threads being gently tucked away.

Echo shifted just enough to tilt your chin up with his fingers—so gentle it made your eyes sting.

“I know I don’t have much to offer,” he murmured. “Not like I used to. But whatever I have left… you can have it. All of it.”

Before you could answer—before you could even think to—he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. Slow. Reverent. Like a promise.

You closed your eyes and let it linger, feeling the way his lips trembled just slightly, like he was holding back all the emotion he wasn’t sure he deserved to feel.

“You’re everything I need,” you whispered against his chest. “You always have been.”

He held you tighter, letting out a breath like he’d been waiting a lifetime to hear that.

And for the rest of the night, you stayed there in his arms, wrapped in warmth, in safety, in the kind of love that didn’t demand anything but presence. The galaxy could wait.

For now, you were exactly where you belonged.

I love this picture so much like… that’s mom and dad (platonic)

“Command and Consequence pt.2”

Fox x reader x Wolffe

⸻

She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.

They weren’t supposed to fall for her.

She wasn’t supposed to leave.

But they did. And she did.

Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.

⸻

Wolffe was gone.

Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.

She told herself it didn’t sting.

Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.

This time, it was him.

Fox.

She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.

“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”

No answer.

Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.

She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”

Fox didn’t move.

“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”

Still nothing.

She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”

That one hit.

His shoulders shifted. Just enough.

“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”

“You walked away.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”

He stepped closer to the shield.

“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”

She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.

“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”

“And you hate her now?”

“No,” he said, almost too quiet.

“I wish I did.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Fox’s helmet snapped up.

“You planning something?” he demanded.

She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”

An explosion rocked the building.

Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.

The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.

She moved first.

Elbow. Throat. Disarm.

Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.

They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.

He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”

She headbutted him. “Too late.”

He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.

He caught her wrist. “You left us.”

She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”

That cracked him.

She tackled him.

They hit the floor hard.

His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.

And for a heartbeat—

There he was.

Fox.

Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.

He flipped her. Pinned her down.

“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”

Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—

And paused.

Just for a second.

He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.

So she closed her fist.

And knocked him out cold.

⸻

She ran.

Again.

Bleeding. Gasping. Free.

But not the same.

Not anymore.

Because this time, she left something behind.

And it wasn’t just her past.

It was him.

⸻

(Flashback - Kamino)

It was raining.

Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.

She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.

She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.

She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.

Good.

But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.

She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.

She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”

No one spoke.

She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”

Eyes tracked her, alert.

“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”

A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.

“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”

She paused.

“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”

“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”

The silence was sharp. But the room listened.

The first week nearly broke them.

She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.

So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.

“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”

A pause.

“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”

CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.

“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”

He quirked a brow.

“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”

He smirked.

“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”

“Bly?” he echoed.

“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”

He went quiet.

“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”

That got his attention.

“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”

“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”

He didn’t flinch.

“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”

His stare didn’t break.

She nodded to herself.

Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.

This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.

“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”

He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.

“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”

Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.

Good.

And finally—

CT-3636.

She exhaled. Quiet.

“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”

He arched a brow.

“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”

Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.

She stepped back and looked at them all.

“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”

She didn’t say why she chose those names.

But Fox knew.

And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.

⸻

That night, neither of them slept.

Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.

Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.

It wasn’t just what she called them.

It was how she saw them.

Not clones.

Not numbers.

Men.

And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:

They would have followed her anywhere.

⸻

“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”

Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.

Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.

He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.

“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”

“A liability,” Fox snapped.

A pause.

Then Thorn said, “So are you.”

She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.

Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.

“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.

Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.

She was running out of time.

So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.

She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:

“You still owe me.”

⸻

Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.

He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.

When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.

“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”

That hit something.

He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.

“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”

Fox raised his blaster.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.

Then she charged him.

They hit the ground hard.

She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.

Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.

It was personal.

Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.

She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.

“Stay down,” he growled.

But she was already back on her feet, staggering.

“You first.”

She lunged. He met her.

For one second, he nearly won.

And then—

The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.

A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.

Fox’s head snapped up.

From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.

From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”

She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.

He caught her foot—just for a second.

Their eyes locked.

She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”

Fox’s grip slipped.

She vanished into the belly of the ship.

The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.

Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.

Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:

“You get her?”

Fox didn’t answer.

He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:

“Next time.”

⸻

The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.

She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.

“You look like shab.”

She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”

Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.

“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”

She ignored him.

Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”

After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”

That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.

“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”

He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”

She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.

“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”

He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”

She smirked. “Sentimental.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”

“You don’t have to run forever.”

“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”

And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.

⸻

Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.

Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.

“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.

“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.

“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”

Plo regarded them both for a long moment.

“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened.

Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”

“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”

Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.

“She made her choice,” he said flatly.

“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”

Wolffe didn’t respond.

“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”

Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”

“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”

Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”

Silence.

Then Wolffe slowly nodded.

“Then I’ll bring her in.”

Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.

“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”

⸻

The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.

Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.

Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”

Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”

“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.

Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”

“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.

Wolffe didn’t respond.

He just kept moving.

They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.

She knew they were coming.

She was waiting.

⸻

They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.

Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.

She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.

“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”

Wolffe charged her without a word.

Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.

But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.

She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.

But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.

They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.

Then came him.

The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.

“Step down,” Plo said.

She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”

“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”

“I was never yours.”

“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”

They fought.

The air crackled.

She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.

He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.

“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”

She lunged. “You don’t know me.”

“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”

“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”

He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.

“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.

She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”

Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.

“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”

That made Plo pause.

“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.

Plo stared at her for a long moment.

Then, slowly—he stepped back.

Released the Force.

“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”

She blinked.

“You’re… letting me go?”

“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”

Wolffe took a step forward.

Plo stopped him with a look.

“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”

Wolffe’s fists clenched.

She didn’t wait.

She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.

This time, no one followed.

“how did you get into writing” girl nobody gets into writing. writing shows up one day at your door and gets into you

“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

MF COMMANDER DOOM

Palpatine: Sneezes

Fox, hiding in his vents, aiming a sniper through the slats: Bless you.

Palpatine, looking up: God?

Fox, cocking the sniper: You won't be seeing him where your going.