“Collateral Morals” Pt.2
“Collateral Morals” pt.2
Commander Thorn x Senator Reader
It was late—later than it should’ve been for a senator still in heels and warpaint, sprawled across the plush bench of her apartment’s balcony with a drink in hand.
You heard the door behind you hiss open and didn’t need to look.
“Come to stand in the shadows again, Commander?” you asked, not unkindly.
Thorn didn’t answer right away. His boots were heavy against the stone. Methodical. Closer.
“I never left,” he said.
You turned your head, gaze trailing up from the rim of your glass to where he stood in that same godsdamn perfect stance. Helmet in hand. Armor lit by the city’s glow.
“You know, I’ve had men try to seduce me with less intensity than you just standing there.”
Thorn’s jaw tightened. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
“No,” you said, rising to your feet, slow and measured. “You’re here because someone tried to kill me and the Chancellor likes keeping his headaches alive.”
You stepped toward him. Close. Too close.
“When I had lunch with Sheev today,” you murmured, voice quiet and dangerous. “He said nothing. Smiled too wide. Dodged every answer like a trained politician, which—fine, he is. But he’s also worried. About me. About you.”
Thorn said nothing.
Your fingers brushed the edge of his pauldron, then up to the rigid line of his neck. He didn’t move.
“Fox had a talk with you, didn’t he?” you whispered, tipping your head to the side. “Warned you off. Told you I was dangerous.”
His breath hitched, barely audible. “You are.”
You laughed softly. “And yet here you are.”
You reached up—slow, deliberate—and your fingers touched his face. A gloved hand caught your wrist, but not before your thumb brushed his cheekbone. Warm. Real.
He held your wrist, not tightly, but firmly. And still, he didn’t pull away.
His eyes searched yours like they were looking for the part of you that might break him.
“I can’t,” he said hoarsely.
“I know,” you said, and your voice was softer now. “But you want to.”
His eyes closed briefly. The silence that followed was full of all the things he would never say. Couldn’t say.
You leaned forward—just a breath, your lips a whisper from his—but you stopped yourself. A sharp inhale. A blink of clarity.
You pulled back slowly, letting your hand fall.
And this time, he let you.
“I should go inside,” you said quietly, and without looking back, you walked toward the open doors.
Thorn stayed behind, jaw clenched, hands shaking ever so slightly at his sides.
He’d stood on a hundred battlefields without faltering.
And tonight, he’d barely survived a senator’s touch.
⸻
The next morning, he was already stationed by your office door when you arrived. Helmet on. Posture locked. Every line of his body radiating do not engage.
You slowed as you approached, coffee in hand, sunglasses still perched over bloodshot eyes from last night’s excess. You looked like a warning label wrapped in silk.
But when your eyes flicked over Thorn, something in your expression shifted. Slowed.
“Morning, Commander,” you said casually.
“Senator,” he returned. Clipped. Cool.
You quirked an eyebrow. “Oh. So it’s that kind of day.”
He didn’t reply.
You brushed past him, close enough that your perfume clung to his senses long after you’d disappeared into your office. He didn’t turn. Didn’t let it show. But his hands curled into fists at his sides.
Meetings. Briefings. More political backpedaling. You were fire at the podium and glass behind closed doors, cracking in places no one else could see.
Except him.
He stayed silent, always a step behind, always watching. Always wanting.
And never letting it show.
Until you cornered him in a quiet corridor outside the lower senate chambers, away from aides and datapads and Fox’s watching eyes.
“Alright,” you said, arms folded. “Let’s talk about this act you’ve got going.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Commander, you looked like I stabbed you when I pulled away last night, and now you won’t even look at me.”
“I’m doing my job,” he bit out, low and tight.
You took a step forward. He didn’t move. Not away.
“I didn’t imagine it,” you said, voice gentler now. “You wanted it too.”
“Of course I did.” His voice cracked, just a fraction. “But what I want doesn’t matter.”
You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw honesty.
He finally looked at you. And Maker, it hurt—because it wasn’t coldness in his eyes. It was restraint. Desire, wound so tightly around duty it was bleeding.
“I won’t compromise your safety,” he said. “Or your career. Or mine.”
“I never asked you to.”
“No,” he said softly. “But if you touched me like that again, I wouldn’t stop you.”
Silence fell.
And then you stepped back, giving him what he needed—space, control.
But not before saying, “You’re allowed to want something for yourself, Thorn.”
You left him standing there, strung taut, jaw clenched so hard it ached—haunted by the echo of your voice and the ghost of your fingertips on his skin.
⸻
The Coruscant sky was painted in golds and coppers by the time you slid into the dimly lit booth across from Padmé Amidala at one of the few upscale lounges senators could disappear into without the weight of a thousand datapads.
“I needed this,” you sighed, tugging off your blazer and waving down a server. “Vodka. Double. And whatever she’s having.”
Padmé smirked behind the rim of her glass. “Rough week?”
You snorted. “The republic is falling apart, I’m the new poster child for controversial ethics, and my head of security is the embodiment of celibacy and self-restraint.”
Padmé choked. “Thorn?”
“Mmhmm,” you hummed, swirling your drink as it arrived. “The man is built like a war god and treats me like I’m a senator made of glass and moral decay. Which, fair, but still.”
She laughed gently. “He’s just doing his job.”
You rolled your eyes, leaning in, voice lowering to a conspiratorial hush. “I nearly kissed him two nights ago.”
Padmé’s eyebrows lifted in delight. “And?”
“And I stopped myself. But he didn’t stop me.”
You tipped your drink back, and Padmé’s smile softened into something knowing.
“He wants you,” she said.
“I know. And I can’t stop wanting him either. And it’s making me insane.” You exhaled, flopping back in your seat. “It’s all sharp edges and stolen glances and him standing too close every time I breathe. He says he won’t compromise me, but every time he brushes past, it feels like he’s about to snap.”
Padmé was quiet for a moment, sipping her wine. “You’re falling.”
You snorted, tossing your head back with a dramatic groan. “I’m not falling. I fell. And now I’m stuck circling the drain with a blaster-proof blockade standing guard outside my bed.”
She burst out laughing. “Well… at least you’re not in love with a Jedi.”
You blinked. “Wait—”
Padmé smiled sweetly. “We all have secrets, darling.”
Neither of you noticed the clone commander positioned a discreet ten meters away—far enough to respect your privacy.
Close enough to hear every kriffing word.
Thorn stood in the shadows of the wall column, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Every muscle locked. Every sense burning.
She’d nearly kissed him. She wanted to.
She’d fallen.
And Maker help him… so had he.
His comm buzzed in his ear.
Fox: You good?
Thorn: Fine.
Fox: You don’t sound fine.
Thorn: Drop it, Fox.
But even Fox would’ve known—standing there, listening to her spill her soul to someone else, Thorn was no longer in control.
He was already hers.
⸻
The walk back to your apartment was a symphony of drunken laughter, slurred gossip, and Padmé’s increasingly animated storytelling as she dramatically recounted a botched undercover op involving Anakin, Obi-Wan, and a fruit cart on Saleucami.
“…and then Ahsoka—gods—she’s stuck under the vendor stall, Anakin’s dressed like a spice runner and flirting to distract the guards, and Obi-Wan’s standing there insisting that he does not negotiate with food smugglers!”
You were cackling, one heel dangling from your fingers, the other foot still strapped in. “How did no one get arrested?!”
“They did!” Padmé said brightly. “Three hours in local custody until Bail Organa bailed them out. Still won’t talk about it.”
You wheezed, tears threatening to smudge your eyeliner. Thorn walked a respectful distance behind as you stumbled into your apartment with Padmé on your arm. He was stone-silent, unreadable. Watching. Waiting.
Padmé leaned in close, kissed your cheek, and whispered, “Try not to give him a stroke tonight.” Then she drifted toward the guest room with a final tipsy wave. “Night, Thorn.”
“Ma’am,” he said with a curt nod.
You locked the door behind her, turned, and leaned your back to it. Barefoot. Half-laced dress clinging to your form. Hair a little messy. Eyes gleaming with drink and danger.
“You didn’t laugh at the story,” you said, smiling.
“I’m not paid to laugh.”
“You’re not paid to stare at me like that either, but here we are.”
His jaw clenched.
You took a few slow, swaying steps toward him, gaze locked on his. “You heard what I said to Padmé, didn’t you?”
Silence.
“You stood there all night listening. That wasn’t professionalism, Thorn. That was want.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But you could feel the energy bleeding from him—taut, trembling restraint.
“So here’s the question,” you whispered, standing toe to toe now. “If I reached up and touched you again… would you stop me this time?”
He breathed, sharp and low. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push me.”
“I’ve been pushing you since the day we met.” You smiled, close enough now your breath mingled with his. “And you haven’t moved.”
His hand shot up, slamming palm-flat against the wall beside your head—not touching you, but caging you in.
His voice was gravel and fire.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking for.”
“I think I do.”
“You think this is about self-control,” he growled. “It’s not. It’s about what happens after I lose it.”
You stilled.
He was trembling, just slightly. His hand hovered for a moment longer… then he stepped back.
“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”
And with that, Thorn turned and walked toward the front door—but not before you saw it.
His hands were shaking.
The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your Coruscant apartment like a rude guest who hadn’t been invited.
Your head throbbed.
Your mouth tasted like fruit cocktails and regret.
You groaned and turned over, expecting Thorn’s ever-silent figure to be near the front door, arms crossed, stoic and unshakable as always.
But he wasn’t there.
Instead, a different clone stood guard—rookie by the look of him. Eyes flicked to you, then away fast. Too fast.
Thorn had rotated off.
Or maybe… he’d walked out.
You weren’t sure which hurt more.
You flopped back against the bed with a dramatic sigh, pressing your hand to your forehead like a dying duchess. A moment later, the bedroom door creaked open.
“Is it safe to enter the lair of the hungover she-beast?” Padmé’s voice called softly.
“Barely.”
She tiptoed in, curls wild and eyeliner smudged, and flopped down onto your bed like she owned it.
You cracked one eye open. “I thought Naboo nobles were trained to rise at dawn with no signs of vice.”
Padmé gave you a dry look. “I was trained to fake it with dignity. There’s a difference.”
You both groaned in tandem, limbs tangled under silk sheets and discarded shawls.
A beat of silence.
Then you muttered, “He wasn’t there this morning.”
“Thorn?”
You nodded.
Padmé looked at you, then looked at the ceiling. “Anakin stopped answering my comms last night. didn’t say a word to me after we got back here. Just disappeared like a ghost.”
You turned your head. “He’s angry?”
“He’s scared.”
“…Same.”
Another pause.
Padmé sighed. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I don’t want to stop. Not with him. Not even when I know how it ends.”
Your throat tightened.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Me too.”
You both lay there, two senators, two hearts bruised in different ways. Hiding in a bed that smelled like perfume, politics, and unanswered questions.
“I think,” Padmé said softly, “we forget we’re allowed to want something for ourselves.”
You blinked up at the ceiling.
“Maybe I just want someone to choose me,” you admitted, the words foreign and terrifying on your tongue. “Not the senate. Not the speech. Me.”
Padmé reached over and gently took your hand.
“You deserve that,” she said.
And for one small moment, you believed her.
⸻
It was early.
Coruscant’s sky was painted in slow-shifting purples and pale gold, the air crisp for once as the morning traffic lulled just above the skyline.
You walked with Sheev Palpatine through one of the Chancellor’s private botanical gardens—a curated oasis of rare flora nestled between towering Senate spires. Your shoes crunched over smooth stones, the air filled with the faint hum of security droids and rustling leaves.
A few steps behind, your clone escort—a quiet rookie with a barely scuffed pauldron—trailed dutifully. Ahead, Marshal Commander Fox and two of his Coruscant Guard flanked the Chancellor like the shadows of death.
“You look tired, my dear,” Sheev said smoothly, hands folded behind his back. “Rough night?”
“You know exactly how rough,” you replied, a dry smirk tugging at your lips. “I assume you read every surveillance report that crosses your desk.”
“I skim.”
You arched a brow.
He chuckled. “Fine. I skim the interesting ones.”
The rookie behind you choked softly on his breath. You didn’t look back, but your lip twitched in amusement.
“You really shouldn’t waste government resources on my personal misadventures,” you said.
“On the contrary,” Palpatine replied, voice shifting cooler, “your… associations are becoming part of the problem.”
Your smile faltered.
“I hear you’re planning a speech this week,” he continued, not looking at you now. “Regarding clone rights. Voluntary service. Benefits. Citizenship.”
“I’m not planning it. I’m delivering it.”
He gave you a long look. “You’ve made enemies before. But this will paint a much larger target.”
“Then maybe they’ll finally stop aiming for my head and start aiming for something I can survive.”
He did not laugh. Instead, he stepped a little closer.
“I’ve heard more whispers, you know. Another attempt. And this time…” His voice lowered. “I fear it won’t be smoke and shadows.”
You were about to respond when a shriek of blaster fire tore the morning open.
Shots rained down from above the garden terrace. Red bolts split the air as bark and leaves exploded around you. You felt the burn before you heard yourself scream—your upper arm searing with heat as a bolt caught flesh.
“GET DOWN!”
Fox’s voice thundered across the garden.
The rookie guard shoved you behind a large stone fountain, blaster drawn. Fox had already reached the Chancellor’s side, shielding him with practiced efficiency.
But Palpatine didn’t retreat.
Instead, he snapped, “Protect her. Now.”
Fox hesitated—one second, maybe two.
Then he turned on his heel, growled a command to his men, and raced for you.
You slumped behind the fountain, clutching your arm, heart hammering in your chest.
Fox skidded into cover beside you. “You hit?”
“Yeah,” you gasped, pressing your jacket against the burn. “Not bad. Not good either.”
He scanned the rooftops. “We need evac—NOW!”
The rookie stayed glued to your side, face pale but steady.
And Palpatine?
Still standing.
Watching from the distance like the eye of a storm.
He didn’t flinch once.
⸻
The antiseptic sting of the medcenter did little to distract from the throbbing in your arm or the adrenaline still lacing your blood.
You sat upright on the edge of the durasteel cot, jacket discarded, bandages wrapped snugly around your bicep. A healing patch hummed faintly under the gauze, but your mind was elsewhere.
Specifically, down the hall.
You’d heard the boots before you saw the storm that followed them.
Commander Thorn.
Now on his rotation.
He moved through the corridor like a thundercloud given armor and a mission. Dried rain still clung to his kama, helmet clipped under one arm. His expression was stone—tight-jawed, unreadable, but his eyes flicked over every corner like he was calculating the fastest way to kill every man in the building.
He didn’t ask questions.
He issued orders.
You watched from the cracked door as he spoke with the medical officer, then turned on his heel toward the security wing—until another familiar voice cut through the silence.
“Thorn.”
Marshal Commander Fox.
Thorn didn’t flinch. He stopped mid-stride, then turned with slow precision, as if he already knew what Fox was about to say.
You should’ve left it alone.
You should’ve shut the door and gone back to pretending none of this mattered.
But instead, you stepped off the cot, crept quietly to the side of the doorway, and listened.
“You were off shift this morning,” Fox said evenly. “And yet you’re here before the updated security logs.”
“I don’t trust anyone else with her,” Thorn replied, voice low and unshakable.
A pause. Footsteps.
“You’re losing control.”
Thorn didn’t respond.
“You know what she is to the Chancellor. You know what she is to the Senate.”
Thorn’s voice was gravel. “She was almost killed today.”
Fox’s tone sharpened. “And if she had been, what would you have done? Gone rogue? Abandoned post? Killed for her?”
Silence.
A silence so loud, you nearly stepped away—until you heard Thorn’s reply:
“I already would’ve.”
The world stopped.
You pressed your back to the wall, heart skidding.
Fox exhaled harshly. “She’s not yours to protect like that.”
“She’s not a piece of property,” Thorn said, the edge in his voice darker than you’d ever heard it. “Not yours. Not his. And if anyone thinks they can use her without consequence, they’ll answer to me.”
“Careful, Thorn.” Fox’s voice dropped. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”
A beat passed. Then Thorn spoke again, quieter this time:
“I care enough to know I’ll never have her. And too much to stop myself if she’s ever in the crosshairs again.”
That was it.
You stepped back silently, breath caught in your throat.
You didn’t know whether to cry or find him and kiss him like your life depended on it.
⸻
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More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
Hi! I was so happy to see you take requests!! I was wondering if you could do a Hunter X reader where she takes care of his hair? Plays with it and brushes it maybe then he confesses his love for her?
You write so beautifully and I would love to see any of your added flare! 💖
“Flower Tactics”
Hunter x Reader
You’d never admit it out loud, but you were obsessed with Hunter’s hair.
Not just in a “wow, that man is rugged and beautiful” kind of way—which he was, obviously—but in a “let me run my fingers through it and brush it until it shines like war-hardened silk” kind of way. It was therapeutic. Meditative. And, much to your delight, he let you do it.
Today, he sat cross-legged on a crate while you perched behind him on a bench, methodically brushing through his dark locks. His bandana was off, laying beside him, and he looked entirely too relaxed for a trained soldier.
“Y’know,” you mused as you carefully untangled a knot, “if you were any more relaxed, I’d think you were napping.”
“I might be,” Hunter replied, voice low and content. “Your fingers are dangerous. You could put a rancor to sleep with that touch.”
“Is that a compliment or a warning?”
“Both.”
You laughed and leaned forward slightly, tugging the brush down again. “So… you’re telling me I have tactical hair magic?”
“I’m saying if you ever turn on us, brushing me into unconsciousness would be an effective ambush.”
A beat passed.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said sweetly, and Hunter let out a low, amused chuckle.
“I like her,” Wrecker announced from across the Marauder’s hull. He was munching on something that definitely wasn’t a vegetable. “She’s got a whole plan to take you down, and you’re just sittin’ there like a sleepy tooka.”
“Only because you’re jealous I’ve got hair to brush,” Hunter quipped back.
Wrecker puffed out his chest dramatically. “You think if I glue some on, she’ll brush mine too?”
“No,” you replied immediately. “But I’ll draw flowers on your scalp.”
Tech sighed. “Please don’t encourage him.”
“Oh, I’m not encouraging,” you grinned. “I’m enabling. Very different.”
You reached into the little pouch at your side and pulled out a tiny cluster of wildflowers—yellow, blue, soft white. Carefully, you started weaving them into Hunter’s braid.
He noticed.
“…Are you putting flowers in my hair?” His voice held that dangerous edge, but you could hear the smile buried underneath.
“Absolutely.”
“I’m a soldier.”
“Even soldiers deserve to look cute.”
“Cute?” he asked, amused.
“Devastatingly cute,” you corrected, giving the braid a final tug. “There. Now you’re battle-ready and bouquet-chic.”
From the back, Echo groaned. “I can’t believe I’m seeing this.”
“You’re just mad no one wants to flower-bomb your hair,” you teased.
“He doesn’t have any,” Omega piped up helpfully, skipping into the room. She stopped in front of Hunter and beamed. “You look so pretty!”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Pretty, huh?”
“You should let her do your hair every day,” Omega added slyly. “You smile more when she’s touching it.”
Hunter froze. So did you.
Wrecker burst into laughter so loud it shook the crate.
“Oof! She got you good!” he said, pointing at Hunter like it was the funniest thing he’d seen all week.
You cleared your throat, cheeks warm. “Smart kid.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hunter muttered.
You blinked. “…What?”
Hunter turned, slowly, looking up at you with that intense expression that made your brain short-circuit. “I do smile more when you touch me.”
It wasn’t a tease. It wasn’t a joke.
He meant it.
Your breath caught in your throat. “That’s… dangerous information.”
“I trust you with it.” His gaze softened. “And maybe a little more than that.”
You stared at him, heart hammering. “Are you saying…?”
“I’m saying I love it when you brush my hair. I love it when you laugh. I love it when you drive the others crazy, and when you sneak me extra caf rations, and when you make even this ship feel like home.”
Wrecker snorted. “Finally.”
Echo made a gagging noise. Tech muttered, “Statistically speaking, it was only a matter of time.”
Omega clapped her hands and declared, “About time!”
Hunter smiled up at you through his flower-crowned braid. “So? What do you say?”
You bent down and kissed his forehead, fingers brushing gently through his hair. “I say… I’m going to need a lot more flowers.”
⸻
The ship had gone still.
No snark from Echo. No clanking from Wrecker. No light tinkering from Tech. Even Omega was tucked into her bunk, curled up with Lula like the galaxy couldn’t touch her.
And in the silence of that rare peace, Hunter sat on the edge of your bed with his back to you, braid still woven down his back, the tiny wildflowers now a little wilted from the heat of the day.
You stepped behind him quietly, holding the soft brush he always let you use. Always yours to borrow.
“Can I?” you asked gently, even though you both already knew the answer.
Hunter nodded once. “Please.”
So you started at the bottom—slowly, carefully loosening the braid, your fingers delicate. The petals came free one by one, falling onto the blanket like pieces of some strange memory.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
And you didn’t push him.
Instead, you moved gently through his hair, unwinding the tightness of the day. With each pass of your hands, his shoulders lowered, his breath slowed.
You didn’t need the words.
But you wanted them.
You loved him. You’d known it for a while now. And maybe you were scared that if you said it, it would break the fragile, perfect peace that this quiet moment gave you both.
But you didn’t have to say it first.
He did.
Softly. Barely above a whisper. Like it had been resting on his tongue all day, just waiting to be safe enough to speak.
“I love you.”
You froze—just for a breath. Then smiled so softly it ached in your chest.
“I know,” you whispered back, fingers brushing behind his ear. “I’ve known.”
He turned to look at you. Hair loose, shadowed eyes soft, vulnerability written in every line of his face.
“Then why haven’t you said it?”
You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “Because I wanted you to say it first.”
Hunter huffed out a tiny laugh. “Tactical move.”
“Always,” you smiled.
He reached up and cupped your jaw gently, his touch feather-light. “I love you,” he repeated, more sure now. “Not just when you’re brushing my hair. Not just when you’re teasing the others. Always.”
You kissed him this time—slow and lingering, hands tangled in his now-loose hair, wild and soft between your fingers.
“I love you too,” you whispered into the space between your lips.
The flowers were gone. The braid undone.
But somehow, this moment felt even more whole.
Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨
|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |
Commander Fox
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️
- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️
- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️
- x reader “command and consequence”❤️
- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️
- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️
- “Red Lines” multiple parts
- “soft spot” ❤️
Commander Thorn
- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️
- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️
Sergeant Hound
- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”
Overall Material List
Fives fans vs. Fox fans discourse is so lame. Just kiss and makeup PLEASE
“It’s On Again”
Commander Bly x Jedi!Reader
⸻
There were moments—even in war—that felt still.
In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.
You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.
You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.
And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.
But never just… you.
⸻
“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.
“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.
“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”
You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”
“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.
You didn’t answer.
She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”
That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”
Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”
⸻
Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.
He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.
He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.
It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.
You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.
But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.
⸻
The ambush came fast.
You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.
The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.
You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.
Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.
“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.
“I’m not done,” you rasped.
“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”
But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.
⸻
Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.
Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.
“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”
You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”
“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”
You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.
“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”
“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.
But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”
⸻
The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.
But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.
And for once, you didn’t stand alone.
Star Wars Republic Commando Concept Art: Commandos in action
“Red Lines” pt.1
Fox X Reader
Summary: In the heart of the Republic Senate, political tension runs high—and so does romantic rivalry. Senators [Y/N] and Ryio Chuchi both battle for the attention of Commander Fox. Unbeknownst to Fox, he’s walked straight into the a love triangle he has no idea exists.
⸻
The Senate chamber buzzed with tension—not the kind that demanded attention with yelling or gavel-pounding, but the kind that simmered beneath the surface, the kind that danced behind careful words and meticulously prepared statements.
You sat at your designated repulsorpod, leaning back in your seat with an expression of carefully manufactured boredom. A debate over Republic funding for refugee programs droned on, and across from you, Senator Riyo Chuchi’s voice rang out clear and impassioned.
“We cannot in good conscience divert funds from displaced Outer Rim citizens simply to bolster another military initiative,” she said, chin held high, the folds of her blue and violet robes immaculate.
You raised a brow and tapped your data pad lightly, requesting the floor.
“While I admire Senator Chuchi’s ever-vibrant moral compass,” you began smoothly, tone like silk with a hint of mockery, “perhaps the esteemed senator might consider that without a capable military initiative, there won’t be any citizens left to protect—displaced or otherwise.”
Gasps and murmurs broke out, but Chuchi didn’t flinch.
“That’s a dangerous line of thought, Senator. Lives are not chess pieces.”
You offered her a practiced smile. “And idealism doesn’t win wars.”
The Chancellor’s gavel rang out with sharp finality. “Debate concluded for today. This matter will be brought to committee vote at the end of the week.”
The chamber dispersed slowly, senators floating back into the corridors of marble and durasteel. You stepped off your pod and were already pulling your cloak tighter around your shoulders when a voice called out behind you.
“Senator [L/N], a moment?”
Chuchi.
You turned, arching a brow. “Didn’t get enough of me in the chamber?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’m not interested in trading barbs with you. I simply want to understand how you can so casually justify funding military expansion when entire systems are starving.”
You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Because I’ve seen what happens when we don’t. War isn’t pretty, Senator. You might call me heartless—but I call myself prepared.”
“And I call you reckless.”
You stepped forward, closing the distance. “And I call you naïve.”
The air crackled between you, tension thick—not quite hatred, not quite anything else. She was too sincere. You were too guarded. It was inevitable you’d clash.
Then a new voice cut through the air, cool and commanding.
“Senators.”
Both of you turned in unison.
Standing at full height in pristine red armor was Commander Fox, hands clasped behind his back in perfect posture. The red of the Coruscant Guard gleamed under the overhead lighting, the expressionless T-shaped visor trained on you both.
Beside him stood Chancellor Palpatine, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, pale face betraying amusement.
“Ah, Senators. I hope I’m not interrupting,” the Chancellor said, eyes glinting. “Commander Fox will be joining the Senate Security Council temporarily as my personal attaché. You may be seeing more of him in the coming weeks.”
You didn’t hear half of what Palpatine said after Commander Fox.
Your eyes met his visor, and though you couldn’t see his face, something in your chest shifted. He looked like a statue carved from war itself—silent, strong, utterly unreadable.
Next to you, Chuchi straightened slightly.
“Well,” she said softly, “that’s… interesting.”
You shot her a look.
She smirked, just the smallest twist of her lips, and in that second, something shifted again—this time between you and her. An unspoken recognition.
You both had the same thought.
Oh. He’s beautiful.
And neither of you was going to back down.
⸻
The Grand Senate Reception Hall shimmered beneath low, golden lights. Crystal goblets clicked, servers weaved between senators with silent grace, and orchestral music hummed in the background like an afterthought.
You hated every second of it.
The champagne was good, but not good enough to justify the politics that oozed from every polished marble corner. A thousand smiles, none sincere. A thousand compliments, each one a calculation.
You leaned against one of the grand pillars, drink in hand, watching the room like a predator waiting for prey to slip.
“Senator [L/N],” came a too-pleasant voice behind you.
You turned to face Bail Organa. Of course.
“Organa,” you said smoothly. “Slumming it with the likes of me?”
His smile was thin. “Just wondering how long you planned to keep needling Chuchi during committee sessions before it turns into a full-on scandal.”
You tilted your glass in his direction. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”
Before he could respond, Mon Mothma joined him with Padmé in tow. All three wore expressions like they’d stepped in something foul.
“Good evening,” Padmé offered stiffly. “Still nursing your taste for conflict, I see.”
You smirked. “Keeps the blood warm.”
Mon Mothma looked you over like she was assessing a wine stain on her robes. “There’s more to governance than combativeness, Senator.”
You sipped your drink. “Says the woman who’s never had to blackmail a warlord into voting for food aid.”
Padmé frowned. “There are other ways to—”
“Sure,” you cut in. “The moral high road. But it’s paved with corpses who couldn’t afford your patience.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Bail gave a tight nod and ushered them away. You watched them go with a smirk. Poking them was too easy.
A moment later, you felt the air shift.
You didn’t need to look to know who had walked in.
Commander Fox. Standing beside Chancellor Palpatine like a silent shadow, red armor pristine, his helmet tucked under one arm.
The murmurs were immediate—political interest, curiosity, and more than a few appreciative glances. But yours wasn’t casual interest. It was sharp, focused.
You tilted your head as you watched him, just for a moment too long.
Then your eyes slid sideways—and met Chuchi’s.
She was across the room, bathed in soft light, delicate hands curled around a glass of something clear. She followed your gaze to Fox, then back to you.
You smiled. She didn’t.
She turned away, cutting through the crowd with all the elegance her status demanded, and joined a cluster of senators.
You drifted toward a table where the more pragmatic senators had gathered— Ask Aak, Orn Free Taa—laughing too loud and sipping drinks too strong.
“[L/N],” Taa grunted, patting the seat beside him. “We were just discussing how flexible some of the outer rim tax restrictions could be… for the right votes.”
“Always such stimulating conversation,” you replied dryly, sitting with an exaggerated sigh. “I assume the ‘right votes’ are the ones that come with a gift basket.”
Laughter. Real, ugly laughter. You loathed them—but they were useful. They liked you because you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Because you didn’t waste time with speeches about justice and peace.
You spotted Chuchi again. She stood near a window, now much closer to Fox—speaking to him, if briefly. His responses were clipped and polite, the kind of efficiency born from a lifetime of standing guard and keeping his thoughts locked behind durasteel.
She laughed lightly at something he said. Her smile was warm. Kind.
You drained your glass.
She was playing the charm angle.
You? You preferred a more direct approach.
You slipped away from the corrupt senators, weaving through the crowd with predator’s ease, and approached the refreshment table just as Fox turned away from Chuchi.
You timed it perfectly.
“Commander,” you said, voice low and silken.
He turned, visor tilting downward to meet your gaze. Even without seeing his face, his posture straightened slightly.
“Senator,” he acknowledged.
“Enjoying yourself?” you asked, voice casual, picking up another glass.
He hesitated. “Not particularly.”
You smiled, genuinely this time. “Good. You’re not missing anything.”
His head tilted slightly. “I assumed as much.”
There was a pause—an odd, quiet moment in the middle of a too-loud room. Then Chuchi reappeared at Fox’s other side.
“Commander,” she greeted, “I hope [L/N] isn’t boring you with cynicism.”
You raised a brow. “I could say the same about your optimism.”
Fox looked between you, the briefest shift of weight betraying his discomfort. If he realized you were fighting over him, he didn’t show it.
“Senators,” he said carefully, “I’m assigned here for the Chancellor’s protection, not personal conversation.”
“Oh, but conversation is protection,” you said. “The more you know what someone’s hiding, the better you know where to aim.”
Chuchi frowned, eyes narrowing. “Not everyone’s out for blood.”
You tilted your head toward her. “No. But everyone’s out for something.”
Fox stared straight ahead, impassive.
He had no idea what he’d just stepped into.
The pause between the three of you had stretched just a breath too long.
Fox, ever the professional, inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me, Senators. I have to return to my post.”
Without another word, he turned and strode away with mechanical precision, the red of his armor catching the candlelight like a bloodstain.
You watched him go. So did Chuchi.
The second he was out of earshot, her voice dropped like a blade.
“You know,” she said tightly, “the clones aren’t toys.”
You blinked, slowly turning your head toward her.
“They’re people,” she continued, voice soft but steely. “They’re not here for your amusement, Senator. You don’t get to play with them like they’re decorations to be admired and discarded.”
You took a measured sip of your drink, then smiled—razor-sharp and unbothered. “How charming. I didn’t realize we were giving lectures tonight.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Oh, I agree. It’s far funnier than that.”
Chuchi’s jaw tensed.
You swirled the liquid in your glass and added, “Tell me, Senator—do you think standing near him and smiling like a saint makes you so different from me?”
“I am different,” she snapped, surprising even herself with the venom behind her words. “I see him as a person. Not a piece of armor. Not a weapon. Not a status symbol.”
You arched a brow. “And what, exactly, do you think I see?”
She folded her arms. “A game. Another victory to notch in your belt. Another soldier to claim until you get bored.”
You laughed, low and cool. “Please. I have senators for that.”
She didn’t laugh. She just stared—eyes narrowing, mouth tight.
“I respect him,” she said. “You—use people.”
You leaned in, just slightly. “You idealize them. Which is more dangerous, really?”
She didn’t answer, but the look on her face said enough. Her hands were clenched now, knuckles white against the soft blue of her gown.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” she muttered.
“No,” you said lightly. “You really don’t.”
You watched her go, shoulders stiff, spine straight, like she was marching into battle. It was almost admirable.
You turned back toward the banquet table, tossing back the rest of your drink. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished surface of a silver decanter—smiling, sharp, and just a little bit empty.
Whatever this thing with Fox was, it wasn’t going to be simple.
And now?
It was war.
The echo of Chuchi’s righteous indignation still rang in your ears as you refilled your drink—this time with something stronger, something that bit like guilt and went down like justification.
Across the room, Mas Amedda stood like a shrine to smugness, flanked by a pair of simpering mid-rim senators and dressed in robes so ostentatious they practically screamed I embezzle with style.
You watched him, your jaw shifting slightly.
There were few things more satisfying than needling the Vice Chair of the Senate. He was pompous, corrupt, and so tightly wound with self-importance that it only took a few words to make him unravel. You needed a release, and he was the perfect target.
You crossed the floor with a glide in your step, your voice syrupy sweet as you approached.
“Vice Chair,” you said, feigning surprise, “I was wondering where the stench of smug had gone. I should’ve known you’d be hiding by the brie.”
Mas Amedda turned, expression souring instantly.
“Senator [L/N],” he drawled. “Still mistaking sarcasm for diplomacy, I see.”
You grinned. “Still mistaking your office for relevance?”
One of the mid-rim senators stifled a laugh. Amedda’s nostrils flared.
“You may be comfortable fraternizing with war profiteers and gang-world delegates, but some of us still value the sanctity of Republic law.”
You raised your glass. “How inspiring. And yet I could’ve sworn I saw your name on the same resource contract that mysteriously bypassed ethical review last week. A clerical error, I’m sure.”
He sneered. “You have no proof.”
You shrugged. “I don’t need proof. I have implication. It’s amazing what a rumor can do, especially when whispered in just the right ears.”
Amedda opened his mouth to fire back—but another voice cut in before he could.
“I’ve often wondered how some of those contracts pass committee oversight,” said Bail Organa, sliding into the conversation like a knife through silk.
You blinked, surprised.
Amedda turned on him, fuming. “Senator Organa—surely you don’t mean to stand beside this sort of company.”
Bail glanced at you. His expression was unreadable, but there was the faintest spark in his eyes. “For once, I find myself intrigued by Senator [L/N]’s line of questioning.”
You tilted your head at him. “Well, well. Welcome to the dark side.”
Bail ignored the jab. “Vice Chair, some of your recent dealings have raised questions. Especially regarding those tax exemptions on Nixor. If I recall correctly, your name appeared in four separate communications with the system’s mining guild.”
Amedda’s eyes narrowed. “You tread dangerously close to slander.”
“I tread carefully,” Bail said smoothly, “but not quietly.”
The Vice Chair stormed off, muttering something in Cheunh you assumed was an insult.
You turned to Bail, still stunned. “Never thought I’d see the day you jumped in with me.”
He exhaled. “Let’s just say I’m tired of watching corruption thrive behind ceremonial titles.”
You studied him for a moment. “So this is your rebellious phase?”
“Don’t get used to it,” he said. “And don’t assume it means I like you.”
“I’d never make that mistake,” you said dryly.
He gave you a look—annoyed, maybe impressed, it was hard to tell—then vanished into the crowd again.
You stood there a moment longer, alone again in a sea of masks and shadows, feeling strangely adrift. You hadn’t expected Bail’s support. You hadn’t expected Chuchi’s anger to sting. And you definitely hadn’t expected Fox to keep creeping into your thoughts like a silent ghost.
You sighed, looking toward the far exit where you’d last seen him standing guard.
This war—on the floor, in the heart, in your head—it was only just beginning.
⸻
The night had thinned to only the devoted and the damned.
You slipped through one of the Senate’s shadowed walkways, heels echoing faintly on polished stone. The reception was dying—senators gone or passed out, secrets spilled or swallowed whole. The quiet was a balm. But you weren’t quite ready to leave.
Not without one last indulgence.
You found him near the overlook—Commander Fox, helmet tucked under one arm, posture razor-straight even at this ungodly hour. Three of his guards flanked him a few paces back, slightly slouched and murmuring low.
You let your presence be known by the scent of your perfume and the lazy drag of your voice.
“Well, well. Still on duty, Commander?” you purred, letting your gaze travel unapologetically over his frame.
Fox turned, visor meeting your gaze. “Senator.”
That voice—low, flat, professional. Predictable. Delicious.
You stepped closer, letting your robe fall open just enough at the collar to hint at skin and intent. “Tell me something, Commander… do you sleep in that armor? Or do you ever let yourself breathe?”
Behind him, one of his troopers coughed loudly.
Fox didn’t move. “Senator, is there something you need?”
You tsked softly. “Need? No. Want? That’s another conversation.”
More snickering from the clones behind him. One of them muttered, “Stars, he really can’t tell…”
“CT-6149,” Fox barked without turning. “Stand down.”
“Yessir,” came the sheepish reply, followed by another muffled laugh.
You smiled, slow and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as you stalked one step closer. “You know, they’re right. You really don’t notice, do you?”
“Notice what?”
“That I’ve been undressing you with my eyes all night.”
One of the guards choked. “By the Force—”
“CT-8812. Silence.”
“Yessir!”
You dragged your fingers lightly along the cold railing, leaning in slightly, letting your body language linger somewhere between temptation and challenge. “You’re an impressive man, Fox. Loyal, deadly, painfully disciplined. It’s… compelling.”
“I’m a soldier,” he said stiffly. “Nothing more.”
You tilted your head. “Mm. Funny. That’s not what I see.”
His visor didn’t flinch. “With respect, Senator, I’m not here to entertain your flirtations.”
You let out a soft, amused sound. “Oh, Commander. I’m not looking for entertainment. I’m looking for cracks. And you… you wear your armor like a second skin, but I wonder how thin it is around your heart.”
Fox said nothing.
You stepped in so close you could almost feel the heat from his chestplate. “Tell me—do you ever let someone get close? Or are you afraid of what you might feel if you did?”
The silence stretched.
Behind him, the clones were practically vibrating with suppressed laughter, every single one of them watching their commanding officer get emotionally outmaneuvered and still not realize he was in a battlefield.
Fox’s voice came eventually, low and sharp. “Return to your patrol routes. Now.”
“Yes, Commander,” they chimed as one, jogging off down the corridor, not even pretending to keep a straight face.
Once they were gone, Fox exhaled slowly. Whether it was relief or tension, you couldn’t tell.
“You should be careful what you say,” he murmured at last.
You arched a brow. “Why? Because you might start listening?”
He was quiet again. Not a refusal. Not an acceptance. Just the weight of something unspoken hanging between you both.
You leaned in once more, lips near his ear.
“You make it so easy, Commander. Standing there like a statue, pretending you don’t know exactly what effect you have on people.”
“I don’t,” he said flatly.
You pulled back, smiling with all teeth and sin. “Exactly.”
You started to turn, then hesitated, gaze flicking to his. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful when you’re confused.”
He blinked once behind the visor.
Then you were gone—cloak sweeping behind you like the shadow of a secret. You didn’t look back.
Let him stand there and figure it out.
If he could.
The red of your cloak had barely disappeared down the corridor when another figure stepped from the shadows of a nearby archway.
Senator Riyo Chuchi.
Fox turned slightly at the sound of her footsteps—calm, measured, as if she hadn’t just been eavesdropping. But she had. Her composure was pristine as always, but her eyes… they were brighter than usual. Sharp with unspoken thoughts.
“Commander,” she said softly, folding her hands in front of her, voice light as snowfall. “You’re still working?”
Fox nodded. “Ensuring the area’s secure before we rotate out.”
“Diligent as ever.” Her smile was gentle. “Though I imagine your last conversation was… less standard protocol?”
Fox blinked. “Senator?”
Chuchi gestured toward the hallway where you’d just vanished. “Senator [L/N] can be… theatrical, can’t she?”
“She was… being herself,” Fox said cautiously.
Chuchi tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you make of her?”
He was quiet a moment.
“She’s strategic,” he said finally. “Sharp-tongued. Difficult to ignore.”
Chuchi hummed softly in agreement. “Yes. She often commands the room, even when she’s not trying to.”
She stepped beside him now, close—but not too close. Enough that the scent of her light floral perfume barely reached his senses. Enough that if she’d worn armor, she might’ve brushed shoulders with him.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said, voice still soft, but with an edge Fox couldn’t quite place. “She seemed very… intent. On you.”
Fox tensed slightly. “She was teasing.”
“Was she?”
He turned to look at her. “Wasn’t she?”
Chuchi met his gaze, and there was something sad and sweet in her expression. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“That you matter,” she said simply. “To people.”
Fox straightened. “I matter to the Guard. To the Republic.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She held his gaze a moment longer, then offered a small, fond smile—half kind, half wistful.
“She may flirt like it’s a weapon, but even weapons point at something.”
Fox stared at her, clearly still processing.
“I should go,” she said gently. “I have an early committee session. But, Commander…”
She paused, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, her voice lower now.
“You may want to start noticing. Before someone gets hurt.”
She turned before he could respond, her steps light, her presence like a soft breeze after a storm.
Fox stood alone again, staring into nothing.
And somewhere deep behind the red of his helmet… confusion bloomed like a silent fire.
⸻
Next part
Arc Trooper Echo x Old Republic Jedi Reader
Before the War, Before the Fall...
You were never supposed to be here.
Once, long before the clone army ever existed, you were a Jedi Knight of the Old Republic. A warrior of the High Order, trained in the arts of peace and battle alike. Your robes were stitched from tradition, your saber forged in a time when the galaxy still believed in balance. You fought in the Mandalorian conflicts, aided in the fallout of Sith uprisings, and stood beside legends long turned to dust.
And then, during a critical mission—classified even by High Council standards—you were frozen in carbonite for protection, hidden away on an unmarked moon. Preserved in silence. Time passed. Empires fell. Republics reformed.
You were forgotten.
Until General Skywalker found you.
Woken from carbon stasis nearly a thousand years later, you emerged into a war-torn galaxy so alien, it barely recognized you as Jedi. The robes were the same. The Code had survived in pieces. But the people... *they* were different.
Especially the clones.
You had never seen soldiers bred for war. The first time you met the 501st, they moved as one—disciplined, deadly, proud. But each man had a spark of something unique. Echo's spark shone brightest to you.
ARC Trooper Echo, all calm focus and sharp wit. Loyal to a fault. Quietly brave. There was a warmth beneath his helmet that reminded you of someone you lost long ago.
And over time, in the stolen spaces between battles and strategy briefings, you found yourself seeking him out. And he—hesitantly, almost shyly—did the same.
You shared jokes, glances, meditations by moonlight. Nothing official. Not even a kiss. Just the ache of something growing where no roots should've taken hold.
---
**Now...**
The hangar echoed with the sound of carbon-freeze generators.
You stood near the chamber platform, arms folded, watching the 501st prepare for the Citadel mission. An infiltration like no other. High risk. No guarantee of return.
Your heart beat in time with the distant hiss of steam. You'd been in carbonite before. You wouldn't wish it on anyone.
"You really want to go through with this?" you asked as Echo approached, helmet tucked under his arm.
He smirked. "I've seen worse."
You raised an eyebrow. "Really? *Worse* than being flash-frozen and dropped into a fortress built to kill Jedi?"
He shrugged with a boyish tilt of his head. "When you put it like that..."
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. "I don't like this mission. Something feels... off."
Echo's smile faded just slightly. "I know. But we follow orders."
You stared at him a long moment, eyes locking with his.
"I've had my fair share of carbon-freeze," you said softly, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Trust me—it's overrated. Don't make it a habit."
Echo chuckled, but there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Or hope. His fingers brushed yours briefly.
"If I don't make it back—"
"You *will*," you cut in.
He held your gaze. "Still. If I don't... I'm glad it was you."
The words hung in the air like an unsent message. You swallowed the ache in your throat.
"I'll be waiting," you whispered.
Then the chamber hissed open, and Echo stepped inside. You watched as he was encased in freezing mist—familiar, haunting. And then he was still.
---
They returned.
Most of them.
But not him.
You heard the news with numb detachment. "Echo didn't make it." Skywalker didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Fives couldn't speak at all.
You were handed Echo's pauldron. Burnt. Cracked.
But the Force...
The Force *whispered* something else.
In meditation, beneath the endless hum of the ship, you reached for that flicker—the warm, stubborn light of him. It was faint. Weak. But not extinguished.
You pressed your hand to your heart and said nothing.
Because you knew.
*Echo was still alive.*
And whatever the cost... you'd find him.
---
You couldn't let it go.
No matter how much time passed, or how many battles you fought alongside the 501st, there was something you couldn't shake—a gnawing feeling deep in your soul. Echo was out there. You knew it. The Force whispered it to you every time you closed your eyes.
You felt him.
The report had come through the 501st's channels—Echo was alive, but he was a prisoner. He had been taken to Skako Minor and reprogrammed, twisted into something... else. A broken version of the man he had once been. But you didn't care. You would bring him back. You would save him, no matter the cost.
Rex was right beside you, his unwavering loyalty to Echo just as strong as your own. The two of you, separated by a galaxy of uncertainty and destruction, had always understood each other in ways the others couldn't. Rex had never let go of his brother, and neither had you.
And now, you couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of the decision as you prepared for the mission. You weren't just doing this for Echo anymore. You were doing it for both of you—him and you. For the love of a comrade, a soldier, a friend, and perhaps, deep down, someone more.
"I won't rest until we find him," you whispered to Rex before the mission began.
Rex gave you a stern nod, though his eyes were soft with the same grief you carried. "We're not stopping until we bring him home."
You shared a glance with him—a silent understanding of what this meant. Echo had always been there, in the trenches with them, in the hardest of battles. But now, it was different. The question of who he was had morphed into something unrecognizable. Would the man you both knew still be the same when you found him?
---
The mission was critical, and time was running out.
You, along with Rex, Anakin Skywalker, and the Bad Batch, had infiltrated the outpost on Skako Minor. The Separatists had taken Echo—one of the finest ARC Troopers—and turned him into a prisoner, forced to serve their twisted agenda. You, however, weren't going to let that happen. Not if you could help it.
Echo was still alive. He had to be. You could feel it.
The journey to the outpost had been a long and difficult one, but now, standing on the precipice of their base, you knew what needed to be done. You had trained with Echo, fought beside him. He was family, and you weren't about to lose him to the war.
The place was cold, mechanical, and sterile—almost too quiet for comfort. It felt like a graveyard. But the faintest sound of movement ahead cut through the silence.
You turned, locking eyes with Rex. His jaw was set, his gaze firm. Beside him, Anakin stood, ready for anything. And then, there was Echo.
But he wasn't the same.
There he was—strapped into an array of machines, wires trailing from his body, his face emotionless. The pain of seeing him like this nearly broke you in that moment, but you knew it wasn't over. He was still Echo.
"Echo," Rex called softly, stepping forward. "We've got you, buddy. We're getting you out of here."
For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of machines and the silence of the outpost. Then, a flicker of movement. Echo's head turned slowly, his eyes blank, as if the man you once knew was buried deep inside somewhere, and this was just the shell.
You stepped forward, your heart racing in your chest. "Echo? Can you hear me?" Your voice was calm, but it cracked with the emotion you could no longer contain. You were here. You had found him.
Slowly, Echo's lips curled into a small, dry smile—familiar, but tinged with something distant.
"You know, I was starting to get used to this place," Echo's voice was robotic, distant. "It's better than the barracks, but I think I could've done without the wires."
You laughed softly, despite the ache in your chest. "You always did have a way with words. Still, this is no place for you. We're taking you back, Echo. You belong with us."
Echo's gaze flickered toward you briefly, his eyes dull but still alive with some trace of recognition. "You... came for me," he muttered, as though trying to process the reality of it.
"You know we would," you said, your voice firm, yet gentle. "You're one of us, Echo. You don't leave your squad behind."
But Echo's face darkened, his expression turning pained. "I'm not the same anymore," he said quietly, almost regretfully. "They've done something to me. I don't know if I can go back to being who I was."
The words hit you hard. But you refused to back down. "That doesn't matter. You're still the same person, Echo. You've always been there for us. We are still here for you."
Echo shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the floor. "I don't know... I don't think I can go back to being that soldier. I've changed."
Rex stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "You're more than what they've made you, Echo. You've always been more than that
For a moment, Echo seemed to consider this, his eyes moving between you and Rex. But then, he shook his head slowly.
"I don't know if I can go back to who I was," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.
Rex's hand clenched into a fist. "You don't have to go back. We're here for you, Echo. We'll fight for you."
Anakin stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "We'll help you, Echo. We're not leaving anyone behind."
Echo's expression remained stoic, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Maybe... maybe I'm not the man you want me to be," he whispered. "Maybe I'm not that soldier anymore."
The pain in Rex's eyes was palpable, but his voice was resolute. "You're not alone, Echo. You never were. And we're not leaving without you."
The escape was chaotic.
Once Echo was freed from the machine bindings, the alarms blared throughout the facility. There was no time to waste. You, Rex, Anakin, and the Bad Batch fought your way out, blasters blazing, all while Echo struggled to regain his bearings. His movements were stiff, his mind clouded from the reprogramming, but with every passing moment, you could see him coming back to himself—albeit slowly.
It was Anakin who led the charge through the outpost's corridors, his strategic mind piecing together their escape route even as enemy fire rained down on them. Rex covered you, his blaster raised and steady, while you kept your focus on Echo, guiding him through the madness.
"You're with us, Echo. We'll get you out of here," you said, trying to keep him calm. He didn't respond, but the faintest nod was all you needed.
When you reached the hangar, the Bad Batch took their positions, covering the exits and keeping the Separatists at bay. Echo was stumbling, but he kept moving forward, a faint glimmer of the soldier he once was starting to re-emerge. You didn't know if he would ever be the same again, but for now, he was with you—and that was all that mattered.
"Keep moving, Echo," you said as you pushed him toward the ship.
"I'm with you," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "I'll never leave you behind."
Finally, after what felt like hours of intense combat, you made it to the ship. The engines roared to life, and the transport shot off into the atmosphere, away from the chaos of Skako Minor.
As you all settled into your seats, the adrenaline of the escape began to wear off, and the weight of what you'd just witnessed settled in. Echo was alive, but he was still so far from being the man you remembered. The wires, the reprogramming, the suffering—it was all etched into him in ways you couldn't yet fully understand.
But you were determined to help him heal. You didn't care what it took— and you wouldn't leave him behind again.
- - -
The chaos of the mission on Skako Minor had finally settled, leaving an overwhelming sense of relief in its wake. The Marauder, the ship piloted by the Bad Batch, now cut through the stars as it headed towards the Republic fleet. It was a rough ride—no surprise there, considering the crew—but it was a comforting one. There was a sense of familiarity with the Bad Batch's eccentricities, their usual banter filling the air around you. However, the most comforting part of all was Echo, sitting across from you.
It had been a long and arduous rescue, but Echo was finally free—physically, at least. The mental scars of his time with the Separatists would take longer to heal.
Echo was seated across from you, leaning back slightly in his seat, his expression distant. His posture was less rigid than usual, but you could see the storm behind his eyes. The escape had been harrowing, and he was still processing everything.
Wrecker, the ever-vibrant and boisterous member of the Bad Batch, was rummaging around in the back, most likely looking for snacks. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say we were all a little too quiet today," he said with his signature grin, tossing a bag of chips to Tech, who caught it with precision.
Tech raised an eyebrow but accepted the snack. "We've just been through a rather intense operation, Wrecker. A little silence isn't a bad thing."
Meanwhile, Hunter leaned against the wall near the cockpit, his piercing eyes scanning the ship's systems, though his attention occasionally drifted toward you and Echo. You knew he respected Echo's capabilities, but you also suspected that he had noticed the bond growing between the two of you.
Rex, too, had been quietly observing, but it was clear from his relaxed posture that he was relieved. Everyone had come out of the mission alive, but the tension was far from gone.
You turned your attention back to Echo, noticing how his eyes occasionally flickered toward the viewport. The stars outside were nothing compared to the turmoil inside him, and it hurt you to see him struggling.
You shifted in your seat and, without thinking, reached across the aisle to gently nudge his arm. "You know, I've had my fair share of carbon freezing," you joked softly, trying to lighten the mood. "So I can't say I'm jealous of you getting to do it again."
Echo blinked, looking at you as a quiet smile tugged at his lips. "I think I've had enough of it for a lifetime," he said with a soft chuckle. "That last time wasn't exactly a vacation."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, the way the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You shared a brief moment of eye contact before he looked back at the stars, and you took the opportunity to close the distance just slightly, your hand brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes in that quiet moment.
The Marauder continued its journey through the void, the hum of the ship's engines filling the air. But it wasn't just the ship that seemed to hum now—it was the quiet connection between you and Echo, something that had always been there, unspoken. The bond between the two of you felt more tangible now, as if the events of the mission had brought you even closer together.
Wrecker, still in the back, called out over his shoulder, "Hey, you two going to just stare at each other the whole ride, or are we finally going to get a real conversation out of you?"
Echo let out a quiet laugh, his eyes flicking to you with a playful, almost sheepish expression. "I think we're getting there."
You couldn't help but grin at the playful teasing, but your heart was racing. A brief glance passed between you, and for just a moment, you felt like the weight of everything—the war, the danger, the mission—faded into the background. It was just you and him, the connection between you two solidifying in that quiet space.
Echo's voice was lower now, more intimate as he leaned slightly closer. "I don't know how to say this, but... I'm glad you were here. I don't think I could have made it through this without you."
Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. The words were too big to express, but the warmth in your chest was enough to convey everything.
"You don't have to say anything," you replied quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm just... happy you're safe."
Echo gave a small smile before his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, sending a flutter through your stomach. "Safe, but not unscathed."
The words lingered between you, but this time, it didn't feel like an obstacle. It felt like a truth you were both starting to accept. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Echo wasn't just a soldier you fought beside. He was something more. Someone more.
- - -
When the Marauder finally docked with the Republic fleet, the hangar bay was filled with the usual bustle of activity. You all disembarked, the quiet tension of the mission still hanging in the air. Everyone's expressions were marked by the weight of what had just happened.
Echo, though physically alive and well, still seemed lost in his thoughts. The Bad Batch, as usual, carried on with their typical behavior, but there was a more subdued air about them. Hunter gave a curt nod of approval as you all made your way toward the command center.
As you walked together, Echo's hand brushed against yours again, a simple, tender touch that made your heart skip. You looked at him, your breath catching in your throat.
"Well, I guess we're back," you said with a light smile. "Not exactly how I imagined the rescue would go."
Echo smirked, his fingers lingering on yours.
Your heart swelled at the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, the affection clear in your gaze.
Before either of you could speak again, Rex came up beside you, giving you a teasing look. "Hey, I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm pretty sure you're both walking into a warzone if you don't get it together soon."
Echo chuckled, his face reddening just a little. "Rex is right, you know. Maybe we should take some time to... figure things out."
You nodded, your heart racing. "I think that's a good idea."
Wrecker, who had been trailing behind, chimed in from a distance. "Oh great! Another love story brewing on this ship. I hope it's not as dramatic as the last one!"
You and Echo exchanged a playful glance, both of you rolling your eyes at Wrecker. Amused but not wanting to pry on the Batch's secret love lives.
With your hand still in his, Echo leaned in slightly, his voice soft. "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
You smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace settle over you. "Good. Because I don't think I could do this without you."
The two of you walked side by side toward the command center, the quiet between you now a comfortable one. You had no idea what the future held, but in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—you and Echo had finally found something worth holding onto.
_______
Part 2
me: I write for myself, not validation
also me after posting a fic *refreshes ao3 every five minutes*
(two things can be true)
“The Butcher and The Wolf” Pt.1
Commander Wolffe x Princess Reader
Summary: On the eve of her planet’s first cultural festival in fifteen years, a disguised princess shares an unforgettable night with Clone Commander Wolffe on Coruscant. By morning, secrets, sassy droids, and a high‑stakes security briefing threaten to upend duty, reputation, and the delicate opening of her world to the Republic.
A/N: The planet and culture is entirely made up.
The gunship descended through Coruscant’s evening traffic like a steel predator, repulsors howling against the cross‑winds that curled between transparisteel towers. Inside, six clone commanders—Cody, Bly, Gree, Fox, Bacara, and Wolffe—occupied the troop bay in various stages of fatigue. They were returning from Outer‑Rim rotations, summoned straight to the capital for what the Chancellor’s aide had called a “priority diplomatic security brief.”
Wolffe used the flight to skim intel. A blue holotablet glowed in his flesh‑and‑steel hands, displaying the dossier of the delegation scheduled to arrive from Karthuna—an independent Mid‑Rim world geographically unremarkable, culturally singular.
Karthuna: quick file
• Isolated, mountainous planet of evergreen valleys and obsidian cliffs.
• Atmosphere saturated with trace kyber particulates—reason scholars cite for the population’s universal Force sensitivity.
• Government: hereditary monarchy tempered by a warrior senate.
• Religion: none. Karthunese creed teaches that the Force is lifeblood, neither moral compass nor deity.
• Average citizen competency: lightsaber fabrication by age fifteen; state‑sponsored martial tutelage from age six.
The data fascinated the commanders—especially the by‑line marked Princess [Y/N], Crown Heir, War‑Chief, locals refer to her as “The Butcher.”
Wolffe scrolled. Combat footage played: a tall woman striding through volcanic ash, twin‑bladed plasmablade in constant motion, severing MagnaGuards like wheat. Every slash bled molten silver where molten metal met crystal‑laced air.
Psych‑profile excerpt
“Displays strategic brilliance and extreme kinetic aggression.
Disregards conventional ‘light/dark’ dichotomy—identifies only ‘strength’ and ‘weakness in harmony with the Force.’
Post‑engagement behavior: known to laugh while binding her own wounds.”
Fox leaned over, eyebrow visible above his red ocher tattoo. “That’s the princess we’re babysitting?”
“Exactly,” Wolffe answered, voice rough like gravel in a barrel. “And tomorrow she sits across the table from half the Senate.”
Bly grinned, toying with the jaig‑eyes painted on his pauldron. “At least the briefing won’t be boring.”
⸻
79’s was hellishly loud tonight: drum‑bass remixes of Huttese trance, vibro‑floors that tingled through plastoid boots, neon that reflected off rows of white armor like carnival glass. The smell was ionic sweat, fried nuna wings, and spiced lum.
Wolffe anchored the bar, helmet on the counter, already two fingers into Corellian rye. Cody lounged to his left, Rex to his right—fresh in from a 501st escort shift and still humming combat adrenaline.
“Can’t believe you two convinced me out,” Wolffe growled.
“Brother, you need it,” Rex said, clinking glasses. “Whole Wolfpack can feel when you’re wound tighter than a detonator.”
“Give him five minutes,” Cody stage‑whispered. “He’ll be scanning exits instead of the drink menu.”
“Already am,” Wolffe deadpanned, which made them both laugh.
The cantina doors parted and conversation sagged a note—she glided in. Cropped flight jacket, fitted vest, high‑waist cargo shorts; thigh‑high laces and a thin bronze braid that caught the lights like a comet tail. She had the effortless cheer of someone stepping onto a favorite holovid set—eyes round with delight, grin wide enough to beam through the floor.
She wedged in beside Wolffe, flagging the bartender with two raised fingers. “Double lum, splash of tihaar—one for me, one for the glum commander.”
Wolffe arched a brow but accepted the glass. “You always buy drinks for strangers?”
“Only the ones glaring at their reflection.” She tapped his untouched visor. He couldn’t help a huff of amusement.
Cody’s own brow shot up; Rex’s eyes widened in instant recognition. Princess [Y/N] of Karthuna—The Butcher—yet here she was in civvies, acting like any tourist who’d lost a bet with Coruscant nightlife.
Rex leaned close to Cody, speaking behind a raised hand. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Credits to spice‑cakes.”
“She hasn’t told him?”
“Not a word.”
Rex smirked. “Five‑credit chip says Wolffe figures it out before sunrise.”
Cody shook his head. “He won’t know until she walks into the briefing at 0900. Make it ten.”
They clasped forearms on it.
The woman matched Wolffe sip for sip, story for story. Where his anecdotes were sparse, hers were color‑splattered and comedic.
When the DJ shifted into a thumping remix of the Republic anthem, she grabbed Wolffe’s wrist.
“I don’t dance,” he protested.
“You walk in circles around objectives, right? Close enough!”
She dragged him into the crush of bodies. To his surprise, he found a rhythm—left, pivot, step; her laughter bubbled each time his armor plates bumped someone else’s. Cody whooped from the bar. Rex held up a timer on his datapad, mouthing 48 minutes left.
At the chorus, She spun under Wolffe’s arm, back colliding with his chest. Up close he saw faint, silvery scars beneath the vest’s armhole—evidence of battles that matched his own. Yet her eyes stayed bright, unburdened, as if scars were simply postcards of places she’d loved.
“Commander,” she teased above the music, “tell me something you enjoy that isn’t war.”
He paused. “Mechanic work—tuning AT‑RT gyros. Clean clicks calm my head.”
“See? You do have hobbies.” She tapped his nose. “Next round on me.”
Back at the bar Rex leaned over to Cody, “He’s smiling. That counts as suspicion.”
“Wolffe smiles once a rotation. Still ignorant.”
⸻
Near 02:00, after shared tihaar shots and a disastrous attempt at holo‑sabacc, She flicked a glance toward the exit.
“City lights look better from my place,” she offered, voice honey‑slow. “I’ve got caf strong enough to wake a hibernating wampa if you need to report at oh‑dark‑hundred.”
Wolffe’s lips twitched. “Lead the way.”
As they weaved out, Cody elbowed Rex. “Timer’s off. Still clueless.”
“Sunrise isn’t here yet,” Rex countered.
“Credits say briefing,” Cody insisted, pocketing the imaginary winnings.
⸻
Lift doors slid open to a loft bathed in city‑glow: vibro‑harp strings hanging from ceiling beams, half‑assembled speeder parts on the coffee table, and a breathtaking skyline framed by floor‑to‑ceiling transparisteel. Nothing screamed royalty—just a warrior’s crash‑pad with too many hobbies.
She kicked the door shut, tossed her jacket aside, then hooked a finger in the lip of Wolffe’s breastplate. “Armor off, Commander. Café’s percolating, but first—I want to map every one of those scars.”
His growl was more pleasure than warning. “Fair trade. I’m charting yours.”
Outside, airspeeder traffic stitched luminous threads across Coruscant night. Inside, two soldiers—one famous, one incognito—lost themselves in laughter, caf, and the slow unbuckling of secrets yet to be told.
⸻
Warm dawn slanted through the loft’s unshaded transparisteel, painting the tangled figures on the bed in amber and rose. Wolffe lay on his back, left arm pillowing [Y/N] against the curve of his chest; her hair falling softly, draped over his cgest. For the first time in months he’d slept past first light, lulled by the quiet cadence of another heartbeat.
A sharp bweep‑bwap‑BWAA! shattered the calm.
The door whisked open and a battered R4‑series astromech barreled in, dome spinning frantic red. Right behind it minced a sand‑gold TC‑protocol unit with polished vocabulator grille and the prissiest posture Wolffe had ever seen.
“WHRR‑bweep!” the astromech shrilled, panels flapping.
The protocol droid placed metal hands on its hips. “Really, R4‑J2, barging into Her High— er, into my lady’s private quarters is most uncouth. Though, to be fair, so is oversleeping when a planet’s diplomatic reputation depends on punctuality.”
[Y/N] groaned into Wolffe’s shoulder. “Five more minutes or I demagnetise your motivators.”
“I calculate you have negative twenty‑two minutes, my lady,” TC sniffed. “We have already been signaled thrice.”
Wolffe swung out of bed, discipline snapping back like a visor‑clip. He retrieved blacks and armor plates, fastening them while [Y/N] rummaged for flight shorts and a fresh vest.
“Got a briefing myself,” he said, adjusting the collar seal. “High‑priority security consult for the Senate. Some warlord princess from Karthuna is in system—Council wants every contingency.”
[Y/N] paused, turning just enough that sunrise caught the concern softening her features. “I heard talk of her,” she ventured lightly. “What’s your take?”
“Files say she’s lethal, unpredictable. Planet locals call her The Butcher.” He shrugged into his pauldron. “Frankly, senators don’t need another sword swinging around. Volatile leaders get people killed.”
A flicker of hurt crossed her eyes before she masked it with a crooked grin. “Maybe she’s…misunderstood?”
“Maybe,” Wolffe allowed, though doubt edged his tone. “Either way, job’s to keep the civvies safe.” He slid his helmet under an arm, suddenly uncertain how to classify the night they’d shared. “I—had a good time.”
She rose on tiptoe, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So did I, Commander. Try not to judge anyone before breakfast, hmm?”
He touched the braid beads lightly—a silent promise to see her again—then strode out, door hissing shut behind him.
Y/N] exhaled, shoulders slumping. R4 emitted a sympathetic woo‑oop.
TC clucked. “I did warn you anonymity breeds complications. Still, we must hurry. The Chancellor expects you in the Grand Convocation Chamber at 0900.”
A wicked spark replaced her melancholy. “No, the Chancellor expects a Karthunese representative—he never specified which.”
She strode to a wardrobe, withdrawing a slim holoprojector and thrusting it at TC. “Congratulations, you’re promoted.”
TC’s photoreceptors brightened alarm-red. “M‑my lady, I am programmed for etiquette, translation, and the occasional moral lecture, not military security architecture!”
“Recite the briefing notes I dictated last night, answer questions with condescension—your specialty—then schedule a follow‑up on the command ship. R4 will project the holomaps.”
The astromech warbled enthusiastic profanity at the prospect.
[Y/N] buckled a utility belt over her civvies and moved toward the balcony doors. “If anyone asks, I was delayed calibrating kyber flow regulators. I’ll review the security grid this afternoon—after I explore a certain Commander’s favorite gyro‑shop.”
TC gathered the holo‑pads in a flurry. “Very well, mistress, but mark my vocabulator—this deception will short‑circuit spectacularly.”
“Relax.” She flashed a grin eerily similar to last night’s barroom mischief. “What’s diplomacy without a little theater?”
⸻
Senators, Jedi, and clone commanders straightened as doors parted.
—but instead of a sun‑circled war‑princess, a polished TC‑protocol droid glided to the rostrum with an astromech rolling at its heel.
TC’s vocabulator rang out, crisp as a comm‑chime.
“Honored Supreme Chancellor, venerable Jedi Council, distinguished Senators: Karthuna greets you. My lady regrets that urgent kyber‑compressor calibrations prevent her personal attendance, yet she bids me convey our joy at opening our borders for the first time in fifteen standard years so all may share our five‑day Cultural Festival Week. We trust today’s briefing will guarantee every guest’s safety and delight.”
R4‑J2 pitched a starry holomap above the dais; TC segued into ingress grids, crowd‑flow vectors, and defensive perimeter options with dazzling fluency.
At the back rail, Commander Wolffe’s remaining eye narrowed.
“That’s her astromech,” he muttered—he’d tripped over the same droid en route to the caf‑maker two hours earlier.
Cody leaned in, voice low. “So—how was your night with the princess?”
Wolffe’s brain locked, replaying dawn kisses, scars… and the sudden absence of any surname.
“Kriff.” His helmet nearly slipped from under his arm.
Next to them, Rex sighed, fished from his belt pouch, and slapped the credits into Cody’s waiting palm. Cody tried not to smirk too broadly.
Bly caught the exchange and coughed to hide a laugh. Gree murmured, “Told you the Wolf doesn’t sniff pedigree till it bites him.”
Unaware of the commotion between the Commanders, TC finished with a flourish.
“Karthuna will provide one hundred honor guards, full medical contingents, and open saber arenas for cultural demonstration only. We look forward to celebrating unity in the Force with the Galactic Republic.”
Polite applause rippled through the chamber. Mace Windu nodded approval, even Chancellor Palpatine’s smile looked almost genuine.
Wolffe, cheeks burning behind his visor, managed parade rest while his thoughts sprinted back to a kiss and the words try not to judge anyone before breakfast.
The princess had played him like dejarik—yet somehow he respected the move.
Cody clapped a gauntlet on his pauldron. “Cheer up, vod. At least your about to spend more time with her.”
⸻
Next Part
“Only One Target”
Captain Rex x Sith Assassin!Reader
Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.
⸻
Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.
You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.
Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.
“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.
“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.
Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.
Skywalker.
Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.
Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”
Simple. Clean.
But Jedi never made things easy.
A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.
Perfect.
Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”
You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.
But Skywalker—he came for you.
He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.
“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.
“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”
“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”
Your blades clashed.
He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.
Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.
You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
“Who sent you?” he snarled.
“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”
His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.
This wasn’t going to plan.
Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”
“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.
“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”
You turned—but it was already too late.
A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.
Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.
Coward.
You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.
And in front of them stood a clone captain.
Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.
He didn’t look at you like a person.
He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.
You smirked through the pain.
“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t shoot you either.
⸻
The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.
You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.
Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.
“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.
You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”
He stopped pacing, turned on you.
“Who sent you?”
“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”
He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”
He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.
“I will get answers out of you.”
You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”
“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”
He stared at you for a long, tense beat.
Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.
“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.
Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.
⸻
Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.
You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.
“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”
Rex didn’t move.
“I don’t have time for your games.”
“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”
“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”
You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”
Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.
“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”
Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.
“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”
You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.
“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”
He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.
Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.
“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”
Your smirk softened. Just a bit.
“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”
“Convenient.”
“True.”
The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.
“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”
He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.
You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.
“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”
He paused in the doorway, head tilted.
“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”
The door hissed closed behind him.
But you knew.
You always knew.
⸻
Captain Rex hadn’t come back.
Not once.
And it was driving you crazy.
Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.
But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.
Something had changed.
The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Then the alarms started.
Again.
You stood.
Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.
Then the scream of a clone dying.
You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.
So dramatic.
She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.
“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”
You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”
She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”
You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.
“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”
Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”
She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.
Chaos.
And in chaos… came opportunity.
Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.
And you intended to walk through it.
You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”
But you were already lunging at him.
The fight was brutal.
He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.
But you were sharper.
He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.
You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.
Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.
You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:
“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”
Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
You smirked, breath warm at his ear.
“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”
And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.
Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.
“Damn it.”
⸻
The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.
You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.
You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.
The kiss.
You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.
Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.
Maybe it was to mock him.
Or maybe it was something else.
You pushed the thought away.
The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.
He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.
The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.
“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”
“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.
“For now.”
Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”
You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”
Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”
“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”
Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”
You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”
“They were in your way.”
You were quiet.
Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.
“You toyed with them.”
The words sliced like ice.
“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”
You tensed.
Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.
Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”
Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”
“You failed the objective.”
His voice rose like thunder.
“You kissed the enemy.”
You blinked once. Slowly.
“I did,” you said.
Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.
He stepped closer.
“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”
“I haven’t.”
He leaned in, towering.
“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”
You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”
He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.
“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”
He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.
“Next time, you kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure you could.
⸻
The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.
Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.
He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Back in that hallway.
Back in the smoke.
Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.
It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.
Instead, she kissed him.
And now she was out there.
Alive.
And he hated that he kept thinking about her.
Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.
Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”
“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”
Rex shifted. “Just processing.”
“Hm.”
Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.
“She messed with your head,” he said casually.
Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”
“She kissed you, didn’t she?”
That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.
Anakin grinned, triumphant.
“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”
Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”
Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”
Skywalker’s brow furrowed.
“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”
A pause. Tense. Thick.
Rex looked away.
“I hesitated.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“…I don’t know.”
It was the only honest thing he could say.
Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”
He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.
“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”
Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”
Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.
“You find her.”
A beat.
“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”
Rex nodded once.
But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.
⸻
“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.
Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”
Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”
Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”
That got his attention.
Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”
“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”
“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”
Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.
Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—
He clenched his jaw.
“She’s bait.”
“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.
“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”
But he wasn’t sure he believed that.
Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.
She wouldn’t hide.
Not unless she was hiding from them too.
⸻
You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.
Every shadow was a threat.
Every sound could be them.
You hadn’t slept in days.
Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.
He hadn’t even tried.
You were nothing to him now.
Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.
And yet, part of you was relieved.
No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.
But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.
You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.
Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.
Rex.
You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.
To his defiance.
His strength.
His disgust.
That heat in his stare when you kissed him.
You’d told yourself it was just a game.
So why did it still make your chest ache?
You swallowed hard.
And then you felt it.
A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.
And getting closer.
“They found me.”
⸻
Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.
“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.
Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”
Rex ignored them.
“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”
“No.”
But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.
This woman was running.
And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.
⸻
The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.
Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.
She should’ve known better.
She was good.
But he was better.
A flash of movement to his right.
He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.
And there she was.
Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.
She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.
In fact—she looked tired.
“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.
The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.
“Drop the weapon,” he barked.
You raised your hands. Slowly.
“I’m unarmed.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”
“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”
You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”
Rex didn’t answer.
He studied you.
No backup. No escape route. No fight.
This wasn’t an ambush.
This wasn’t a trap.
This was… surrender.
“Where’s your army?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Dooku?”
You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”
“And Ventress?”
A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”
That, at least, made sense.
Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.
“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.
“Why should I believe you?”
You looked at him.
Not smiling. Not teasing.
Just looking.
“I don’t care if you do.”
Another beat of silence.
And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.
“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”
He stared at you.
One word. One plea.
“Please.”
It wasn’t seductive.
It wasn’t tactical.
It was real.
And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.
The wind howled between you.
And he… didn’t pull the trigger.
Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
The truth sat thick between them.
“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”
There was a pause.
Then static cracked and—
“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.
“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.
Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.
When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.
“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”
Rex followed without a word.
⸻
The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.
You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.
Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.
Always watching.
“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.
“But you didn’t call me in.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
You looked up. Eyes meeting his.
And for the first time, neither of you looked away.
“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”
You exhaled, slowly.
“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”
Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.
You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”
The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.
Then—
“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.
You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”
“A dangerous one.”
“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”
Rex looked at you then. Really looked.
You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”
He flinched at that.
“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”
Rex didn’t respond right away.
Then, finally—
“I believe you.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”
He hesitated.
“…I don’t know yet.”
Another pause.
Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.
“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”
His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”
You smiled. “Did it work?”
He didn’t answer.
You were closer now. Too close.
And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.
But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.
Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”
He met your gaze.
“I don’t have time to wonder.”
“Maybe you should start.”
You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.
Then, at the last second, you pulled back.
“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.
Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
And outside, the storm raged.
⸻
Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.
“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.
Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”
Fives smirked. “He found her.”
“And didn’t bring her in.”
They shared a look.
“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.
Fives clicked his tongue.
“I think he hopes not.”
⸻
The storm had passed.
The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.
You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.
Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.
You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.
“They’ll know soon enough.”
“I know.”
“They’ll think you let me go.”
“I did.”
Finally, you turned to him.
Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.
“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.
“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”
You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then you stepped forward. Closer.
“This is the part where I disappear again.”
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step forward.
Didn’t say stay.
Because he couldn’t.
You leaned in, eyes searching his.
“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”
And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.
Just real.
Warm.
A goodbye.
Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then you were gone.
Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.
Like you’d never been there at all.
Except he’d never forget.
⸻
Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”
Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”
Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.
“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.
“She was never there,” Rex said.
Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”
“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”
They watched him.
Said nothing.
Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.
And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.
A smear.
No, not a smear.
Lipstick.
Fives blinked.
Then grinned like a menace.
But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.
And muttered without looking back—
“Don’t.”
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