“You’re What?!”
Can i request the 501's reaction to you being sick? Specifically with a fever or something that's easy to hide. And the reader has rarely been sick before so everyone freaking out when they eventually find out lmao
I love your writing <3 you deserve so many more likes my darling
“You’re What?!”
501st x Reader
You’d dodged blaster fire, explosive shrapnel, and the temper of half the 501st. But this… this damn fever was your greatest adversary yet.
“You’re lookin’ a bit pale, General,” Jesse had noted the day before, squinting at you over a deck of sabacc cards.
“I’m always pale. Comes with the territory,” you’d said, waving him off and trying to ignore the sweat rolling down your spine.
You figured it would pass. It always did. You never got sick. But two days in, your joints ached, your brain felt like it was melting, and even Rex noticed something was off.
“You alright?” he asked after training drills, brows drawn tight beneath his helmet as you leaned too long on the wall.
“Fine. Just tired.”
Rex had narrowed his eyes but let it go. For the moment.
That night, you crawled into your bunk fully dressed, armor still half-on, because even removing your boots felt like a battle. You swore no one would know. You were fine.
The next morning, you nearly face-planted in the mess hall. Nearly. But unfortunately, not before Fives caught your elbow mid-sway.
“Woah—woah! Easy, General!” His arm wrapped around you like a vice. “Are you drunk? Wait, are you drunk? Is that allowed? Why wasn’t I invited?”
“I’m fine,” you rasped, voice barely above a whisper.
Fives blinked. Then frowned.
“…You sound like a malfunctioning comm.”
And suddenly the entire table went silent. Hardcase dropped his tray. Jesse dropped his jaw. Kix, who had just sat down with his caf, froze mid-sip.
“You’re sick?” Kix stood so fast he knocked over his drink. “You’ve never been sick!”
“Statistically speaking,” Echo said cautiously, “this might be an omen.”
“Don’t say omen, she’ll think she’s dying!” Jesse snapped.
“I’m not—” you started, and immediately broke into a coughing fit so violent it made Kix’s med-scanner ping before he even used it.
Rex had walked in by then, and you knew you were doomed when he barked, “What’s going on?”
“She’s sick,” Fives said dramatically, like he was reporting a battlefield casualty.
“Proper sick,” Echo added, wide-eyed.
“Like, fever and everything,” Jesse chimed in.
Rex turned to you slowly, like you’d just declared war on Kamino.
“Is this true?”
You stared, swaying a little. “Maybe.”
Rex took one step toward you and you flinched. “Don’t touch me. You’ll catch it.”
He looked offended. “You think I care about that?”
The moment your knees buckled, six clones lunged at you like you were the last ration bar on the ship.
⸻
Later, in the medbay You were tucked into a cot, surrounded by snacks, water bottles, and what looked suspiciously like a handmade blanket from Fives.
“I’m not dying,” you muttered, as Kix took your temperature for the fifth time.
“You had a fever of 39.5. You were dying,” he said flatly.
Rex was pacing. “Next time you feel off, you tell someone.”
“She thought she could tough it out,” Echo said knowingly. “Classic move.”
Fives leaned on the bedrail. “Don’t worry, General. We’re not letting you go anywhere until you’re back to full sass levels.”
Hardcase grinned. “And I’m standing guard. Fever or not, no one touches our General.”
You coughed again and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
Jesse threw a blanket over your head. “So are you.”
Hardcase nodded gravely. “This is emotionally devastating.”
Even Anakin showed up halfway through the ordeal. “Heard you caught the plague. Do you need me to file a formal mission postponement?”
“…It’s a cold, sir.”
“That’s what you said before that speeder crash, and we both know how that ended.”
By the time your fever broke the next day, the entire 501st had personally sworn vengeance on germs, replaced your room filters, and started force-feeding you water every hour.
And when you walked into the hangar a day later, freshly cleared by Kix and very much alive?
There was a banner.
“WELCOME BACK FROM THE BRINK OF DEATH.”
Hardcase had made it himself. With glitter.
Day 1 of being cleared by Kix: You felt good. Not perfect, but good enough to want your normal routine back. Unfortunately, the 501st had other plans.
Rex refused to let you do anything strenuous. “You’re still on light duty,” he said as he handed you a datapad and pointed to the command center chair. “You sit, drink water, and look authoritative. That’s it.”
“Can I at least lift the datapad myself?” you asked dryly.
“…Only if it’s under 2 kilograms.”
Fives popped up behind you, placing a fluffy blanket over your shoulders. “You didn’t even cough, but just in case.”
“I’m not cold.”
“You might be cold.”
Hardcase walked by with a steaming mug of something he said was “clone-approved recovery tea,” which suspiciously smelled like caf and fruit rations. You didn’t ask.
Tup slipped a flower behind your ear. “For morale.”
Dogma, meanwhile, was pacing with a clipboard, occasionally checking on your hydration levels. “Eight sips every hour. Non-negotiable.”
At lunch, you tried to sneak away to the mess.
Jesse blocked the doorway like a bouncer. “Authorized personnel only. And by that, I mean people not recently raised from the dead.”
“I had a fever. I didn’t flatline.”
“You might as well have! I had to emotionally process that in real time.”
Echo leaned around him. “I made you soup.”
“…Why are there six different bowls?”
“We all made you soup.”
“I am not eating six soups.”
“Yes, you are,” Kix said from behind you, arms crossed. “Recovery protocol. Article 7B. Look it up.”
You were 80% sure he made that up.
That night, as you returned to your bunk, someone had strung up another banner.
“WELCOME BACK: PLEASE STAY THAT WAY”
There was even a checklist on your locker:
• No dying
• No hiding symptoms
• Tell Kix everything
• At least try to act mortal
You sighed and smiled despite yourself. There was a little sketch of you, wrapped in a blanket, being force-fed soup by Fives. They’d drawn themselves too—grinning like idiots, looming behind you like overprotective brothers.
You curled up that night with a warm stomach, sore cheeks from smiling, and an overwhelming sense of comfort.
You weren’t just better.
You were home.
More Posts from Areyoufuckingcrazy and Others
“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.”
“Grumpy Hearts and Sunshine Shoulders”
Wrecker x Female Reader
⸻
The ocean was too blue. The sky was too clear. The people were too… happy.
It annoyed you.
Not because it was bad—it wasn’t. Pabu was a dream. A sanctuary. A rare piece of untouched paradise in a galaxy still licking its wounds. But after everything you’d seen, done, survived, the cheerfulness of it all hit you like sunburn on old scars.
So when Wrecker waved at you the first morning you arrived—big smile, bigger voice, bouncing down the stone steps like a gundark on caf—you nearly turned around and left.
But you didn’t.
You stayed. You unpacked. You avoided him for two days.
And then?
He showed up outside your door with a grin and a crate of fresh fruit.
“You need help settin’ up?” he asked, already peeking past your shoulder like he owned the place.
You crossed your arms. “You just looking for an excuse to snoop?”
Wrecker blinked, then grinned wider. “Only a little.”
You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw.
“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it!” he said, delighted, as if he’d won a war.
“That wasn’t a smile. That was… mild amusement. Don’t get cocky.”
“Oh, your smile is so beautiful!” he declared, plopping the crate on your counter like he lived there. “I’d love to see it more often.”
You raised a brow. “Flattery? Really?”
“Not flattery,” he said, serious for a second. “Just the truth.”
And just like that, your walls cracked a little.
⸻
A week passed. Then two. You stopped flinching when he knocked. You started helping him haul supplies. You let him drag you into town gatherings, always with the same grin and the same cheer.
“You’re definitely the only person I would do this for,” you grumbled once, dragging your boots through the sand on the way to a lantern festival.
“I know!” Wrecker beamed, looping a thick arm around your shoulder. “I’m special.”
“You’re loud.”
“I’m charming.”
You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You smiled again.”
“Damn it.”
⸻
One night, you found yourself sitting beside him on the docks. The moon cast silver streaks across the water, and Wrecker was humming some out-of-tune melody you didn’t recognize.
“You ever stop being cheerful?” you asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Used to. After Crosshair left, and after Echo… yeah. I had some bad days. Real bad. But Omega helped. So did Pabu.”
You nodded slowly.
He looked at you, more thoughtful now. “You got bad days too, huh?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly: “Sometimes it feels wrong to enjoy peace. Like I haven’t earned it.”
Wrecker shifted closer. His hand brushed yours, warm and solid. “You don’t gotta earn peace. You just gotta accept it.”
You looked at him, brow tight. “You make it sound easy.”
He grinned. “Nah. It ain’t. But I’m here. Omega’s here. You’re not alone.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
“I’ll do it,” you whispered after a long pause, “but only because you asked me to.”
“Do what?”
You finally leaned your head against his shoulder.
“Try. To enjoy it. This place. You.”
Wrecker’s face turned redder than a sunset. “Well, hey, no pressure, but—I really like it when you smile.”
You chuckled.
Then, finally—finally—you smiled again.
being a symbolism enjoyer should humble you because at the end of the day no matter how eloquently you articulate it youre essentially saying "i love it when things have meaning"
Do y'all ever read a fic so good that it makes you want to elevate your own craft and also befriend the writer? It's almost like, "Hi! You write so well that you've inspired me to embark on a creative training arc. Also, can I yell about the character in your dms because you get it?"
“Side Streets and Solitude”
Commander Neyo x Reader
You saw him before he ever ordered a drink.
Most clones came into 79’s loud, rowdy, aching for some distraction. But he walked in alone—always alone—helmet tucked under his arm. He wore that long coat like armor, even off duty, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight no one else could see. He never smiled. Not once.
You didn’t ask his name. You just called him “the usual?” and he’d nod once, wordless. Whisky. Neat. Never touched the beer.
He sat at the far end of the bar, not too close to anyone, but never hiding. Just… existing in the silence between laughs and music and the rest of the Guard forgetting the war for five minutes. He never joined them. Just drank. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.
You learned to stop wiping the counter when you passed him. He didn’t like the sudden movement. You figured that out after the first night, when his hand twitched toward the blaster holstered at his side.
Some clones called him Neyo. Commander. You didn’t use it. He didn’t correct you either way.
“You ever smile?” you asked once, half-joking, late in the night when the place had thinned out and the hum of the room softened. You were stacking glasses, looking at him across the lip of the bar.
He didn’t look up. “Not much to smile about.”
You let that hang. You knew a man carrying ghosts when you saw one.
“Yeah. I get that.”
He glanced at you then, just once. A flicker. Like he didn’t expect to be understood. You didn’t need to tell him your story—he didn’t want it, probably—but that look said he clocked it. That you weren’t like the others either.
You lived in the same city, drank the same watered-down liquor, but both of you were walking some kind of empty road no one else could see.
For a long time, you just stood in silence. Him with his drink. You with your rag and your thoughts.
Finally, he said, “I come here because it’s quiet. Even when it’s loud. You know?”
“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s a good place to feel alone. But not… completely.”
He blinked, slow. “Yeah. Something like that.”
He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t expect him to. But he came back the next night. And the next.
Always alone. Always quiet. But now, when he sat down, he looked at you first.
Not a smile. But maybe something close.
⸻
He didn’t come back for two weeks.
You didn’t ask where he went. You knew better than to ask questions like that. Especially with the GAR—especially with him.
But when he came back, he had blood on his gloves. Not his. You could tell by the way he moved.
You poured his drink before he reached the bar.
“Rough one?” you asked, voice low, like if you spoke too loud it might break whatever fragile tether kept him standing upright.
He sat. Took the glass. Didn’t answer right away.
“Lost a good man.”
You nodded. “They always are.”
A long silence followed. The kind that settled in your chest.
“They say we’re not supposed to get attached.” His voice was flat, but his hands were tight around the glass. “Doesn’t matter. You feel it anyway.”
You didn’t say I’m sorry. That phrase meant nothing in a place like this. Instead, you grabbed another glass and poured one for yourself.
“To the good ones,” you said, raising it halfway.
He didn’t lift his, just looked at you. Then, after a second, knocked it back.
That became a new ritual. Not every time. Just sometimes. When the grief sat too heavy in his coat.
Over time, you learned the little things.
He preferred the quiet of the back booth when the place wasn’t packed. He never danced, never flirted, didn’t touch the food. When the music got too loud or too fast, he’d drift outside for air. You started meeting him out there with a second drink, standing beside him under the flickering streetlamp, neither of you talking unless the silence needed it.
“Most people see clones as one thing,” you said once, after a few too many customers had made too many dumb jokes about regs. “But you’re all different. You especially.”
He stared ahead, helmet under his arm again, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter if we are. Not to the people who give the orders.”
You looked at him. “Does it matter to you?”
That made him pause.
“Yes,” he said finally. Then added, “I remember every face I’ve lost. That’s how I know I’m still me.”
And that—more than any long-winded speech—told you everything you needed to know about him.
He wasn’t a man of many words. But what he gave, he meant.
And still, he never stayed long. One night here, three days gone. A week of silence, then another appearance. No promises. No warnings.
But when he did come in, he’d glance toward the bar before scanning the room. Like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping you’d still be there.
You always were.
One night, close to closing, the place was empty. Rain tapped at the windows, slow and rhythmic. Neyo was sitting at his usual spot, coat slung over the chair.
You brought him his drink, and this time, slid a datapad across the bar.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“A list,” you said. “Of my shifts. So you don’t have to wonder.”
He looked at it. Then at you.
That unreadable look again.
You smiled. “I know you won’t always show up. But if you do… I’ll be here.”
His fingers grazed the pad, slow. He didn’t smile. But he held your gaze a little longer this time.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. A rare thing, that word.
You poured him another drink and stood across from him, matching his silence.
The war hadn’t ended. The streets were still cracked. The dreams were still broken. But for now, in this little corner of the galaxy, you both had somewhere to walk that wasn’t so lonely.
⸻
Neyo wasn’t the kind of man who noticed absence.
He was trained to move forward. To endure loss like gravity—constant, inevitable, unavoidable.
But when he walked into 79’s that night and saw someone else behind the bar, something shifted.
She was too talkative. Young. Smiled too much. Had never poured him a drink before, and made it obvious by asking, “What’ll it be, sir?”
Sir.
He blinked. Something cold crept up his spine, not fear, not anger—just dissonance.
He sat down anyway. Same stool. Same spot.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
She nodded, turned, poured. A splash too much.
He looked at the drink. Didn’t touch it.
You never asked what he wanted. You already knew.
“Is [Y/N] around?” he asked, voice low, forced casual.
The bartender blinked. “Oh—they called in sick tonight. First time I’ve worked with their section, actually.”
Called in sick.
He sat back slowly, fingers tightening just slightly on the glass. He told himself it didn’t matter. People got sick. People missed shifts.
But you never had before.
He stayed longer than usual that night, even though everything felt… wrong. The lights too bright. The music too upbeat. He didn’t finish his drink. Just let it sit there, the amber catching light, untouched and warm.
The new bartender tried to make conversation once—asked something about the war. He ignored her.
Eventually, he stood, paid without a word, and walked out into the rain.
He didn’t know where he was going until he got there—corner street, flickering streetlamp, just outside the side entrance. Where you used to stand with him when it got too loud.
You weren’t there, of course.
He leaned against the wall anyway.
Rain pattered onto his shoulders. Steam curled off the street like breath.
He didn’t understand it—why the night felt heavier without you in it. He didn’t have the words for that kind of absence. But it gnawed at him, that sudden space you left behind. The silence you weren’t filling.
He looked down at the datapad in his coat. The one with your shift list, still saved.
Tomorrow, you’d be back. Probably.
And if you weren’t… he didn’t want to think about that.
⸻
You came back on a quiet night.
No fanfare. No apology. Just walked in through the back door, tied your apron, and started cleaning a glass like you hadn’t missed a beat.
But Neyo saw it.
The way your eyes didn’t search for him first. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
When he took his usual seat, you were already pouring his drink. But your hands moved slower.
“You were gone,” he said, voice steady.
You nodded. “Yeah. Needed a night.”
He didn’t reply. Just watched you slide the glass across to him, fingers brushing, not quite touching.
Then you said it—quietly, like it was a confession.
“I handed in my resignation.”
He blinked once. “What?”
“I start somewhere new next week. Smaller place. Little more out of the way. Less noise.” You looked at him, trying to read him like you always did, but his expression didn’t shift. “I just… I needed a change.”
A long silence followed. You hated the way it stretched.
Finally, he asked, “Where?”
You told him the name of the place. A lounge bar tucked into one of the upper levels—not exactly seedy, but not exactly clone-friendly either.
He stared at his drink. “They don’t serve clones there.”
Your breath caught. “Yeah, I know.”
Another silence.
“I didn’t choose it because of that,” you said quickly. “It’s just… different. It’s quiet. Thought maybe I’d try something new.”
He didn’t look at you.
“You won’t see me there,” he said plainly. Not cruel. Just fact.
You nodded. “I figured.”
You wanted to say more—to explain that it wasn’t about him, that you weren’t abandoning him, that the weight of every war-worn story and every heavy silence was starting to drown you. But you didn’t. Because that would be unfair. Because you knew what he’d say.
He lifted the glass and drank. Then sat it back down with a soft clink.
“When?”
“Three days.”
He gave a short nod.
You looked at him for a long time. “I’ll miss this.”
He didn’t answer.
But his jaw clenched. Just barely.
Then, softer than you’d ever heard from him: “So will I.”
That was the closest thing to goodbye you were ever going to get.
And somehow… it hurt more than if he’d said nothing at all.
⸻
It was your last shift.
The bar felt the same, but you didn’t. Everything had a weight to it now. The laughter, the music, even the way you wiped down the counter—it all carried finality.
And he was there.
Neyo showed up just before midnight. Sat at the end of the bar like always, helmet on the counter, armor dull with wear. He didn’t say anything when you slid him his drink. Just gave you a long look.
You didn’t need words tonight.
You served your last table, handed over the till, and untied your apron with tired fingers. The place was quieter than usual. The other bartender took over, giving you a soft wave as you shrugged into your coat.
You turned to leave—and saw him waiting at the door.
Outside, the street was cool and quiet. Your boots echoed against the duracrete. Neyo walked beside you, silent as a shadow.
“You didn’t have to wait,” you said softly.
He glanced over. “Didn’t want you walking alone.”
The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re sweet when you’re trying not to be.”
He didn’t respond—but you could’ve sworn his jaw loosened, just a bit.
You walked in companionable silence, the kind that only came from two people who had said more in silence than they ever could aloud.
When you reached your building, you stopped at the steps and turned to him.
“If you ever need a drink…” you started, watching his face, “you’re welcome to come around.”
He stared at you. Not in the usual guarded way, but with something else in his eyes—something uncertain, almost… longing.
Then you added, “Want to come up?”
It hung there, a gentle offer, nothing more.
For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. It was written in his posture—the way he stood like he might turn away.
But then… he nodded.
You didn’t smile. Just opened the door and led the way.
Your apartment was small, cluttered, warm. You threw your coat over the back of the couch and kicked off your boots.
Neyo stood just inside the door, helmet under his arm like a shield he didn’t know where to put.
“You can sit,” you offered.
He did—hesitantly, armor creaking as he lowered himself onto the couch. You poured two drinks from a half-finished bottle on the counter and handed him one.
“You sure you’re off duty?” you teased lightly.
His eyes met yours over the rim of the glass. “I’m never off duty.”
You sat beside him, the air thick with things unsaid. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved.
“Why’d you really wait for me?” you asked, voice softer now.
He didn’t answer right away.
“I didn’t want to regret not saying goodbye.”
You swallowed. “You saying goodbye now?”
He looked at you. Really looked.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft or practiced—it was urgent, restrained, the way a man kisses when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again. Your fingers curled into his blacks, and his gloves dropped to the floor. The helmet followed. You pulled him closer, and for once, he didn’t resist.
His hands were calloused, unsure, but when they found your skin, they lingered like he was memorizing every inch. You guided him, slow but certain, until his barriers fell—not just the armor, but the weight he carried behind his eyes.
He wasn’t a soldier in that moment.
He was a man. Tired. Raw. Desperate for something real.
And you gave it to him.
Bittersweet. Fleeting.
The kind of night that lingers like the echo of a song you almost forgot—until it finds you again in the quiet.
His mouth was still warm against yours when he pulled back, breath shallow, eyes unreadable.
You stayed close, barely inches apart, your fingers still resting against the edge of his undersuit.
“Neyo,” you whispered, searching his face. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye.”
His jaw clenched. Not in anger—just habit. A response to something he didn’t know how to process.
He looked away, eyes dragging across the room like he was already retreating. Like he had to remind himself where he was. Who he was.
“I don’t get to stay,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I don’t have that kind of life.”
You leaned in again, gently, slowly, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.
“I’m not asking for forever,” you said. “Just… don’t shut the door before you’ve even walked through it.”
He looked at you again, and something flickered behind his eyes. It wasn’t hope—but it was something close.
“I don’t want to leave and forget this ever happened,” you added. “I don’t want to pretend like you never came in out of the rain, like we didn’t sit under that streetlight all those nights like we were the only two people left in the world.”
His breath hitched—but barely.
“You don’t talk much,” you said softly, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye. “But you stayed. You showed up. Every time. That’s gotta mean something.”
Neyo closed his eyes, just for a second. When he opened them again, he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.
It wasn’t a promise.
But it wasn’t a goodbye either.
And for someone like him, that was more than enough.
You stayed like that for a while—still dressed, still halfway caught in that space between war and peace, silence and what could be.
Then, finally, he spoke. A whisper. A truth you weren’t expecting.
“I’ll come find you.”
You nodded, even as your chest tightened. “Good.”
Because you weren’t sure when—or if—he would. But you believed him.
And maybe, for one of the first times in his life, so did he.
What Remains
Captain Rex x Reader
Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.
⸻
You’d found the distress signal by accident.
A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
But you weren’t most people.
And the frequency?
It was clone code.
You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.
Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.
And then you heard him.
At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.
“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”
Static.
“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”
More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.
“I don’t wanna die like this…”
Your heart stopped.
You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.
“Rex!”
Then you heard it.
Closer now.
“Please…somebody…I—”
His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.
And finally—you found him.
Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.
His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.
“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”
Your heart shattered.
You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”
His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”
You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”
Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.
“Hurts…”
“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”
You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.
He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.
But now?
Now he was just a man.
Bleeding. Scared. Alone.
You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.
“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”
You closed your eyes.
“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”
⸻
He woke up in pieces.
A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.
And your voice.
He could hear you before he could turn his head.
“I know you’re awake, Rex.”
He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.
“How long?”
“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”
He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”
You closed your book. “Of course I did.”
He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”
There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.
You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.
Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.
But he wasn’t now.
He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.
“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.
You said nothing. Let him go on.
“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”
You reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”
“You’re not.”
He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”
He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”
You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.
“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”
You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.
“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.
His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”
You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.
He was shaking.
It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.
You wrapped your arm around him.
He didn’t say anything after that.
He didn’t need to.
⸻
Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:
“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”
And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.
Radiant.
“War on Two Fronts” pt.6
Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara
⸻
The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.
Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.
And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.
Her breathing had finally steadied.
But the storm inside hadn’t.
That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.
And for a moment, she hated them both.
Not just for what they did.
But for making her feel small.
For making her doubt herself.
She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.
She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.
And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.
Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.
Were either of them truly what she wanted?
Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?
She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.
And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—
“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”
Maybe she wanted peace.
Maybe she wanted clarity.
Maybe she wanted herself back.
A knock startled her—sharp and fast.
But she didn’t move.
Not yet.
The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.
She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”
“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”
Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”
“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.
The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.
“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.
“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.
“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”
“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.
He said nothing.
She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.
“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”
Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”
“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”
Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.
“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”
“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”
She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”
“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”
That struck something deep.
She stared at the floor.
“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”
“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”
She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.
“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”
“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”
Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.
“Thanks… Master”
He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.
“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”
He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.
And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.
⸻
The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.
And then came the knock.
Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.
The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.
Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.
She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”
He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.
“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”
The silence that followed was thick.
“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”
“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”
She turned to face him, arms crossed.
“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”
That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.
“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”
“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”
Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”
“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”
That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.
She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”
“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”
Her breath hitched.
“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”
Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”
He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.
“You kissed me,” she whispered.
“I’d do it again.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”
He did.
This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.
When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.
Hopeful.
⸻
He knew before she said anything.
He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.
It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.
Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”
She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”
He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.
Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”
He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.
“I know that too.”
She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”
Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”
“I know.”
“But you’re better with him?”
She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”
For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.
“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”
She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.
“Rex…”
He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”
And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.
When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.
“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.
And then he was gone.
She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.
⸻
The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.
This was heartbreak.
He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.
Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.
She chose Bacara.
The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.
He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.
But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.
Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.
And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.
But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.
He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.
“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.
It was Ahsoka.
He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”
She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.
“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”
He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”
Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”
Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”
“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”
There was a long silence between them.
“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”
He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”
She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”
Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”
“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”
He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.
And maybe, someday, he would be.
But not tonight.
⸻
Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
“Storm and Starlight”
Sev x Jedi Reader
It had been twenty-nine days since she went missing.
Sev knew the exact count, though he never said it aloud. He didn’t like counting things unless they were kills. Death was predictable. Comfortable. But her? She was something else.
They lost contact with her squad during an op on Felucia. Dense jungle. Hostile locals. Separatist interference. Command called it. KIA, presumed.
Sev didn’t believe it. Not because of some Jedi faith, but because she was the one thing in his life that didn’t shatter under pressure.
She annoyed the hell out of him. Bubbly, bright, constantly chirping about “hope” and “trust in the Force.” It should have driven him up the walls. But somehow, it worked. She worked.
And now she was gone.
So when the door to the debriefing room slid open and he saw her silhouette—filthy robes, a torn sleeve, a limp in her step—his mind blanked.
She paused in the doorway. Her hair was caked in mud and ash, but her smile still hit like a thermal detonator.
“Miss me?”
There was a beat.
Then another.
Sev crossed his arms and exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “I had wondered where my headache went.”
She laughed—light and unexpected, like rain in a war zone—and limped closer. “Is that how you greet everyone who comes back from the dead?”
“I’ve only seen you do it. Once.” He eyed her up and down. “You look like hell.”
“Hell’s got better lighting.”
Sev reached out, pulled her closer by the belt of her torn robe. “Where the kriff were you?”
“Trapped. Separatist scout patrol hit us hard. I got out, the others didn’t. I’ve been trekking across half the jungle, dodging droids and eating… well, I think it was fruit. Could’ve been eggs.”
“Should’ve been you that got eaten.”
She leaned her forehead against his chest plate. “Aw. You did miss me.”
Sev went still.
Her warmth, her voice, even the scent of jungle rot clinging to her—none of it should’ve made his heart stutter like that. And yet.
“I didn’t miss you,” he said, voice lower. “I just got used to the quiet.”
She looked up, eyes glittering like starlight. “Liar.”
And he was.
Because for twenty-nine days, he hadn’t slept right. The jokes didn’t land. The blood didn’t thrill. He kept expecting her voice in his comm, her humming in the medbay, her absolutely infuriating habit of giving everyone in Delta Squad an encouraging nickname.
Now she was back. Cracked and bruised—but still sunshine, somehow.
“You’re gonna die smiling one day,” he muttered. “And I’ll be the one dragging your corpse back just so I can punch it.”
She smiled, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ll die knowing you cared.”
Sev sighed and pulled her fully into his arms. “Next time you disappear, I’m tying a tracking beacon to your ankle.”
“Promise?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.6
Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn
The Senator didn’t move right away. Fox hadn’t left yet.
His presence lingered like a storm cloud—helmet still on, posture rigid, arms crossed as if restraining something darker beneath the surface. She watched him from the threshold of the corridor, neither of them speaking, the silence dense with unspoken heat.
“You disapproved,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer.
She stepped closer. “But you didn’t look away.”
Fox’s chin dipped, visor tilted down as if to hide the twitch in his jaw.
“Careful, Senator,” he said, voice low, cold, and shaken in a way only she could catch. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“And you’re already in it.” Her tone sharpened, but her eyes stayed locked on his visor. “Don’t act like you haven’t been circling me like a hawk since day one.”
Silence.
Then,“You don’t know what I feel.”
“Then say it,” she challenged. “Say something real for once.”
Fox took a slow step forward, closing the distance between them—his body tense, his words tight and deliberate, repeating what she once said to him. “You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too kriffing scared to say yourself.”
Her breath caught.
He stared at her for a moment longer. Then turned and walked away before either of them could cross a line they wouldn’t come back from.
⸻
The door to the barracks slammed open.
Fox stormed inside, the hard stomp of his boots warning enough that Thorn didn’t need to look up from the locker he’d been staring into for ten solid minutes.
“You disobeyed every line of protocol.”
Thorn stood. “So now you want to talk about it?”
“You kissed her on duty.”
“You watched it happen.”
Fox ripped off his gloves. “And you still did it.”
There was a pause—just long enough for tension to turn electric.
Thorn’s voice was quiet, but sharp: “You don’t get to pull rank on feelings, Fox. We both want her. Don’t pretend this is about regulation.”
That was it.
Fox swung.
Thorn caught it—barely—and shoved back hard. A scuffle broke out, fists colliding with durasteel lockers, helmets clattering to the floor. Fox grabbed Thorn by the collar, slamming him against the wall.
“You crossed a line.”
“You already crossed it—you’re just mad I got there first.”
A loud bark broke the chaos.
Grizzer lunged.
Hound rushed in a second too late as the mastiff clamped down on Fox’s arm with a growl. Stone grabbed Grizzer’s collar, Thire threw himself between the commanders, and Hound pried the dog off with a sharp command.
Fox’s arm bled. Thorn’s knuckles were bruised. Tension crackled like static.
Everyone froze.
“Stand. Down,” Thire barked, out of breath, eyes darting between them.
Fox wrenched his arm away from Hound, teeth gritted. “Keep that beast on a leash.”
“You two need to sort your osik out,” Hound snapped, patting Grizzer’s head with one hand and pointing at them both with the other. “Because if you don’t, you’re going to get someone killed. And I don’t mean each other.”
They stood in silence—breathing hard, eyes still locked.
It wasn’t over.
Not even close.
The medbay was dim, quiet. Just the way Fox liked it.
He sat on the edge of the cot, undersuit peeled down to his waist, jaw clenched as the auto-dispenser hissed out a cauterizing agent onto the bite wound on his arm. Grizzer had strong jaws. Too strong. The bastard left deep teeth marks, even through his sleeve.
Fox didn’t flinch.
He never did.
But rage simmered just beneath his skin—about the senator, Thorn, himself.
He’d lost control.
Again.
The door slid open.
Fox didn’t look up. “I said I wanted to be alone.”
“You say that every time you get mauled, Foxy.”
Fox’s spine stiffened.
No.
Not him.
Quinlan Vos strolled in like he owned the place, clad in his usual half-buttoned robes, smug grin painted across his face, and Force help the galaxy, his hair was down. That ridiculous mop of beach-bum locks falling into his eyes like he hadn’t just walked into the nerve center of the Republic Guard.
Vos whistled when he saw the blood. “Damn. That a Mastiff, or did Thorn finally snap and bite you?”
Fox didn’t answer.
“You know, for a guy with so much discipline, you really do attract violence like a magnet. It’s almost poetic.”
“Get out.”
“Now now, is that any way to talk to a Jedi Master who just happened to be in the neighborhood and heard a juicy rumor about a senator and two commanders trying to kill each other over her?”
Fox finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, eyes burning. “This is none of your business.”
Vos grinned wider. “That’s the thing about me, Foxy. I make everything my business.”
He walked over, casually picking up a bacta patch. “So which one of you kissed her first?”
Fox didn’t answer. Vos hummed.
“Ah. That’s how it is.”
He peeled the wrapper off the patch and handed it to him. Fox snatched it, slapping it over the wound with unnecessary force.
“You’re in deep, huh?” Vos said quietly now. His voice lost some of the usual lilt, turning thoughtful. “I can see it.”
Fox didn’t look at him.
“I’ve seen men go down this road,” Vos continued, watching him. “Some of them clawed their way back. Most didn’t.”
“She’s not yours,” Fox snapped.
Vos raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t say she was.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because whether you like it or not, you’re coming undone, Commander. And I have orders to keep the Guard functioning. You spiral out, the whole tower burns with you.”
Fox stood. “I am not spiraling.”
Vos looked him up and down—shirtless, bleeding, jaw bruised, and still trembling with rage.
“Sure,” Vos said, slow and sarcastic. “Totally fine.”
Fox grabbed his gloves and helmet off the tray and stalked past him.
Vos called out as he left, “Tell Thorn I’ll be by to heal his bruises too. Or at least watch Hound chew him out again.”
Fox didn’t stop.
But the door nearly dented when it slammed behind him.
⸻
Thorn sat alone in the barracks’ quiet lounge, nursing a bruised knuckle and a splitting headache. Hound’s lecture was still ringing in his ears. Stone had suggested they cool off with a drink—Thire offered him a frozen steak for his eye. Grizzer, after biting Fox, had the audacity to curl up beside Thorn like he hadn’t instigated an all-out brawl.
The door slid open.
“You know,” came that too-smooth voice, “for a guy named after a sharp object, you sure wear your heart like it’s blunt.”
Thorn groaned and leaned back without looking. “Vos.”
“Commander,” Quinlan said, dropping onto the couch beside him uninvited. “Heard you and Fox went a few rounds over a senator.”
Thorn said nothing.
Vos smirked. “You’re both lucky Grizzer didn’t go for the face.”
Thorn rubbed his temple. “Why are you here?”
“Curiosity,” Vos said breezily. “And because I happen to be good friends with a certain Jedi who served with your senator. Back when she wasn’t a senator, but a commander. Small galaxy.”
Thorn looked over slowly. “You know someone who served with her?”
Vos held up a hand. “Before you ask—no, I won’t tell you who. Jedi confidentiality and all that. But I could get them to talk to her. Maybe help… unravel this whole little triangle you’ve got going on.”
Thorn tensed, then forced himself to relax. “She’s not in a triangle.”
Vos laughed. “Oh, my friend. She is the triangle.”
Thorn didn’t answer.
Instead, his tone shifted. “So it’s true. She really was a commander.”
Vos tilted his head. “Didn’t Fox tell you that already?”
“I wanted to hear it again.”
Vos grew slightly more serious. “Yeah. She was a hell of a one, too. Decorated. Respected. Feared.”
“Feared?” Thorn asked, brow furrowing.
Vos shrugged. “Depends on which side of the war you were on. But most of it’s been buried. Whole campaigns sealed. Records redacted. Even my Jedi friend won’t talk much. Said it’s classified—need-to-know.”
Thorn was silent.
“Truth is,” Vos continued, “you’ll only ever get her side of the story… if she wants you to have it.”
Thorn looked down at his bruised hand.
Vos added, softer, “Don’t push too hard, Thorn. That kind of past doesn’t stay buried without a reason.”
And with that, Vos stood and stretched like he’d done nothing more than offer career advice over caf.
“Tell Fox I say hi,” he called as he walked out. “And maybe try not to murder each other tomorrow. I’ve got credits on both of you for different reasons.”
The door hissed shut, leaving Thorn in a sea of silence… and questions he suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted the answers to.
⸻
The tension had a scent—subtle, metallic. Like ozone before a storm.
She felt it in the way the guards shifted in the halls, in how Fox’s voice had lost its usual edge and become tightly controlled. In how Thorn hadn’t so much as looked her in the eye since yesterday. Something had changed.
She wasn’t surprised when her door chimed. But the man standing on the other side wasn’t Fox. Or Thorn. Or a summons from the Chancellor’s office.
“Kenobi,” she said.
Obi-Wan offered a patient, polite smile. “You always answer like I’ve come bearing bad news.”
“You usually do.”
He sighed. “Well, you’ll be relieved to know this time I only come bearing a headache.”
She stepped aside to let him in. “Vos?”
“Vos.”
That earned a smirk from her. “You want a drink?”
“Desperately
They settled on her balcony, the city golden and low in the sky, just shy of sunset. Ed She poured them both a drink—Alderaanian, smooth, aged. Obi-Wan accepted it with a look of wary gratitude.
“Why do I feel like this is some kind of delayed consequence for my past?” she asked.
“Because it absolutely is,” he replied. “But mostly, Vos sent me.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “He’s enjoying himself, isn’t he?”
“Far too much,” Obi-Wan muttered. “You know how he is. Any hint of personal drama and he acts like he’s watching theatre.”
“I should’ve let him get shot.”
“I was there. You tried to let him get shot.”
That earned a grin from her.
They sat for a moment, quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence only people with shared history could sit in without it feeling heavy.
“You’ve seen them,” she said eventually. “The commanders.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And I’d say your presence is… significantly disruptive to their equilibrium.”
She snorted. “That’s a very Jedi way of calling me a problem.”
“I didn’t say you were a problem. I said you’re the gravity. They’re just circling.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Do you think Vos said anything to them?”
Obi-Wan arched a brow. “About?”
“About the war. About what I did.”
There was a beat. The drink in her hand warmed between her fingers.
“Vos knows more than he lets on,” Obi-Wan said carefully. “He always has.”
She looked away, toward the skyline. “I can’t afford them knowing everything. Not yet.”
“I doubt he told them everything. But he may have let enough slip to stir their curiosity.”
“I don’t want their curiosity. I want their professionalism.”
Obi-Wan didn’t say anything to that. He simply sipped his drink, contemplative.
“You were there too,” she said quietly. “You and Vos. You know what it was like.”
“I remember,” he said. “And I remember what you did. I also remember how much of it was buried under politics and repainted as something else.”
“That was the deal,” she said, bitterly. “Be the hero they needed, and maybe they’d forget I started as the villain.”
Obi-Wan set his glass down. “You were never the villain. You were a soldier. A leader. Same as the rest of us.”
“Tell that to the people I buried.”
He didn’t respond to that. Just watched her with those clear, tired eyes that had seen too much and judged too little.
“Do you regret it?” he asked finally.
“I regret that people like me had to exist at all,” she said. “But no. I don’t regret surviving.”
There was a long pause.
“I’ll keep Vos in check,” Obi-Wan said softly. “But I can’t stop the past from catching up.”
“Just slow it down,” she murmured. “Long enough for me to decide how I want to be seen.”
He offered a nod. “You always did like to control your narrative.”
“And yet,” she said with a small smirk, “I let you and Vos tell it for me.”
Obi-Wan chuckled. “You never let us do anything. You were just smart enough to make us think we had the choice.”
She toasted him with her glass. “Still am.”
⸻
It hit faster than a bomb and spread twice as far.
By midmorning, every data terminal in the Senate complex buzzed with alerts. Security systems scrambled, slicing units raced against the breach, and a hush fell over the halls more damning than a public outcry—because silence meant everyone was reading.
The cyber attack had been surgical. Dozens of files lifted from the most secure systems on Coruscant. All senators. All sensitive. Not even the Chancellor was spared. But some were worse than others.
Her file made front-page headlines on five Core Worlds within the hour.
Her face stared back at her from an unauthorized holonet broadcast, grainy war footage playing behind text that read: SENATOR OR WARLORD?
It was all there.
The use of the enemy’s uniform in the infamous ambush at Ridge 17.
The unarmed surrendering prisoners shot in the back after being marched into a ravine.
The nighttime raid that ended with a half-dozen civilians caught in the fire.
The public executions. The battlefield tribunals.
The bloody calculus of survival, simplified and repackaged for mass consumption.
And worse—each sealed report had her name etched in full: Commander [LAST NAME], leader of the 3rd Resistance Legion.
Nowhere to hide.
By the time she reached the Senate floor, the stares had already changed. They weren’t hostile, not outright. But the quiet had grown pointed. Even the senators who’d once embraced her at functions stepped back just slightly, their warmth tempered by uncertainty. Some averted their eyes. A few didn’t bother.
Senator Mon Mothma was the only one who stepped forward.
“You don’t need to explain anything,” she said gently. “You led a war. Most of them haven’t even led a debate.”
The senator gave her a tight smile. “You’re kinder than I expected, Mon.”
“I’m pragmatic. And I’ve seen what war does. You don’t owe them anything.”
Except she did. She owed something. Even if it wasn’t an apology.
In her office, she didn’t sit. She stared at the screen instead—at her own record splayed out across a dozen news outlets. There was no way to know how the public would react. A war hero to some. A butcher to others. To the commanders who now guarded her, she wondered what she was.
A knock at the door startled her.
“Enter.”
Thorn stepped inside, helmet under his arm. He didn’t speak. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes held weight.
“Say it,” she said. “Whatever you’re thinking.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It does.”
His jaw clenched. “I’ve fought beside men who did far worse than what’s written here. And I’ve fought beside better men who never made it through a single battle. You made it. You survived. You did what you had to.”
“And if I hadn’t? If I hadn’t done what I did?”
“You wouldn’t be here.”
“Would you still respect me?”
He didn’t answer. That was the answer.
“I didn’t enjoy it,” she said. “But I did it.”
“I know.”
She turned away from him, gripping the edge of her desk.
“And Fox?” she asked quietly. “What does he think?”
“I don’t know,” Thorn admitted. “He hasn’t said a word since the report came out.”
Of course he hadn’t. Fox would carry his judgment in silence. He’d probably carry it straight to the Chancellor’s office and beyond.
But it was Thorn still standing in front of her. Thorn who hadn’t walked away.
That counted for something.
That counted for everything.
⸻
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