Stop Talking About The USA. I Have Heard Enough About That Wretched Place

Dominoes fall, but no one ever tells you what happens to the last one. Lyrics from: Wait for Me - Hadestown (2:47-3:11) ...with a little lyric change at the end. Beep beep, emotional damage truck coming through! Also this is the result of my WIP featured on my Last Line Challenge.

“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.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“Red and Loyal” pt.4

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

They brought her out at dusk.

The sky above the capital bled violet and gold, and the light made her look almost ethereal as she was marched up the execution platform. Chained. Stoic. Dignified even in ruin.

Crowds were forced to gather—citizens herded into the central square at blaster-point. Droids lined the rooftops. Separatist banners hung in place of the planet’s colors, waving like a threat in the wind.

She climbed the steps herself. Unassisted.

And when she reached the top, she paused—not for fear. But to look at them. Her People.

Their eyes were wide with despair, faces hollow from weeks of fear. Some wept. Others stood still. Waiting. Hoping. A broadcast droid hovered beside the stage, recording every breath. Streaming it across the planet.

A voice crackled through the speakers: “The prisoner has been granted final words.”

And that’s when she stepped forward.

Back straight. Chin raised. Wrists still bound in front of her.

The wind caught her hair as she spoke.

Clear. Commanding. Unshaken.

“To those watching—this is not the end. Not of me, and not of our world.”

“The Separatists think that by putting me to death, they are ending our resistance. But they have forgotten something: power taken by force is fragile. It fears truth. It fears unity. It fears voices like mine, and hearts like yours.”

“They want me to kneel. They want me to beg. But I will not.”

“I will not validate tyranny with silence.”

“You are not alone. You are not broken. And this planet—my home—is not theirs to take.”

“Let my death be the last one they claim. Let it mark the moment we stop fearing them.”

“Let it mark the beginning.”

The droids shifted.

The crowd held its breath.

She smiled, just a little—chin still raised, defiant.

“Now do what you came to do.”

⸻

Inside the lead gunship, the air was thick with silence—not calm. No one dared speak.

General Kenobi stood near the holoprojector at the center of the cabin, his arms crossed, lips pressed into a grim line. The flickering holo-feed of the senator’s execution streamed in front of him, unstable from planetary interference—but still very real.

Commander Cody stood beside him, helmet in the crook of his arm, eyes fixed.

The Senator stood tall at the execution stage, her final words still ringing through the feed like a siren in every clone’s chest.

Then—movement.

A droid officer stepped forward. The executioner. Mechanical. Cold. Lifting the electro-guillotine’s lever with clinical efficiency.

A hush fell over the crowd in the square. And the gunship. Cody’s hand curled tight around his helmet.

Kenobi’s voice was low, nearly a whisper “Punch it. Full speed. No stealth.”

“Sir, we’re still—”

“I said punch it.”

The gunship lurched forward, engines screaming. Through the cockpit, the capital city loomed on the horizon—flames and smoke rising in dark plumes, Separatist cruisers blotting the sky.

The other ships of the 212th fell into formation behind them.

Then— Back on the holo, the droid’s hand reached for the trigger.

Cody spoke, rough and urgent:

“ETA?!”

“Forty-five seconds!”

“That’s too long!” Cody snapped, slamming his helmet on.

Kenobi looked at him.

And Cody looked back, voice hard and cracking.

“We’re not losing her. Not today.”

The droid’s arm lifted. The crowd gasped—some screamed. The Senator did not flinch.

And then— A shriek cut through the sky.

Not from the crowd. But from the air above.

Gunships.

The sky erupted in sound and fire. The first blaster bolts rained down on the droid ranks from above—precision strikes that sent sparks and scrap flying. Clones rappelled from hatches, dropping in formation onto the stage and into the square, weapons drawn.

The executioner droid turned its head toward the noise—too slow.

Cody landed hard, blaster raised, shot clean through its neck.

“Move!” he barked, before even touching ground fully.

He was at her side in seconds, cutting her binders off with a vibroblade, catching her by the elbow as explosions tore through the square.

She stared at him, breathless—confused, stunned.

“Told a friend I’d bring you home,” he said, already pulling her toward the evac point.

She could barely hear over the thunder of battle, but—

“Fox?” she managed to ask.

Cody gave her a sharp look.

“He’s waiting.”

The capital was a storm.

The skies above roared with the thunder of Republic gunships, a flurry of blaster fire lighting up the heavens. Clones dropped from the ships like falling stars, armor gleaming through the smoke. The ground was a mess of war cries and destruction. Explosions lit up the streets as they tore through the Separatist droids, reclaiming what had once been the heart of a peaceful planet.

Commander Cody led the charge through the square, his blaster spitting rapid fire as he moved with precision. The 212th behind him was a wall of determined soldiers, every step driven by the need to push back the invaders.

The Senator was not far behind, protected now by Cody and a handful of soldiers. She had been silent after their initial exchange, still catching up to the fact that she had not just been freed, but had escaped. That moment, the seconds between life and death, still played in her mind. But now, her survival was in her hands—her people were counting on her to lead.

Cody’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Keep moving! We retake the streets, now!”

He fired again, taking down a B1 battle droid that had been lining up to fire on them. The clatter of its parts hitting the ground was quickly drowned out by the next round of blaster fire.

The droids were falling fast—at first, it had been a gamble, a sudden drop on the city with the 212th spearheading the attack. The Separatists had been too scattered, too slow to adapt.

Kenobi’s gunship circled low, dodging enemy fire, as the General looked toward the street where Cody had just led a successful push.

“Cody, report,” Kenobi called over comms, his voice calm but laced with urgency.

“We’re advancing into the city center, General,” Cody’s voice crackled through the comm.

“The Separatists are holding strong, but we’re pushing through. We have Senator [Y/N] with us.”

Kenobi paused, a hint of something like relief crossing his face.

“Understood. We’ll clear the way from here. Hold your position.”

The Senator was breathless but unwavering as they moved. She could feel her pulse pounding in her chest as they cut through alleyways and streets, the sounds of blaster fire and explosions echoing around them.

“We’re close,” Cody said, glancing over his shoulder. He had a protective edge in his eyes now, the intensity in his posture evident. “We’ll get you to safety, but you need to stay down.”

She nodded, moving faster, more instinctive than ever. She had always been a symbol of hope, but now, in the face of overwhelming danger, her defiance turned into raw strength.

Her eyes flashed as she scanned the buildings ahead of them.

“We must take back the government building. We need to signal the people of this planet.”

Cody didn’t argue. There was no time for it. They continued their advance, cutting through Separatist forces as they went.

As they neared the government building, they were met with resistance.

A small battalion of droids stood guard, the tallest among them a heavily armored AAT. The droid commander barked orders as blaster fire erupted in every direction.

“Cover fire!” Cody yelled.

The squad spread out, with Thire, Stone, and the others taking positions to cover the senator. The sound of blaster fire echoed back and forth, the crash of explosions reverberating in the streets.

Cody moved first, leaping into the fray with blaster raised, cutting through the advancing droids. His men followed suit, the ground littered with the bodies of fallen droids and debris.

And then, from above—the unmistakable roar of an incoming Republic ship.

The 212th’s gunship descended rapidly, flanking the droids from the rear and creating chaos in their ranks.

Kenobi’s voice rang out over comms, firm and commanding.

“Cody, the building is clear. Move the senator there. We’ll handle the remaining forces.”

Without hesitation, Cody gestured to the senator.

“This way, Senator,” he said, his tone softer now.

She nodded, allowing herself to be guided into the government building’s entrance. The sounds of the battle faded for a moment as they crossed the threshold.

The Republic forces held their ground.

Minutes later, the Separatists began to retreat, their lines weakening under the relentless pressure from Kenobi and his men.

As the last of the droids fell and the gunships circled overhead, the city slowly began to settle. The fires still burned, the sky still blackened with smoke—but for the first time in weeks, there was something that felt like hope.

Cody took a moment, his blaster still at the ready, scanning the surroundings for any remaining threats. The senator stood tall beside him, her eyes locked on the city outside the window.

“We’ve done it,” she murmured, though her voice lacked the triumph one might expect.

“Not yet,” Cody said, his gaze steady. “But we will.”

⸻

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Star Wars Rebels and Andor both begin in 5 BBY but are aimed at two different audiences and even if they weren't it's entirely realistic to expect that even in dark times like the Empire there's going to be silly light-hearted days for our heroes

All this to say it's kinda funny to imagine that while Andy Serkis was giving a rousing speech to prisoners to rebel against a fascist gulag system building a nuclear weapon, somewhere across the galaxy some punk-ass street rat who always calls himself Jabba the Hutt is trying to corral a herd of panicked pigs that literally turn into giant balloons when they get scared

“In all honesty darling, they only started calling me the Negotiator because the slut was considered too unprofessional.” - Obi-Wan Kenobi to Cody at some point in the war

Someone, Evermore (Sunshine, Evermore.) by songofsewerrats on ao3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62754613

@songofsewerrats

Edit: since this post is being seen by a lot of people, im letting you guys know that this fic is the best Codywan fic I’ve ever read and I strongly recommend you to check it out!

“The Lesser of Two Wars” Pt.2

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

The club was one of those places senators didn’t publicly admit to frequenting—no names at the entrance, no press allowed, no datapad scans. Just a biometric scan, a whisper to the doorman, and you were in.

Nestled high above the skyline in 500 Republica, it was a favorite among the young elite and the exhausted powerful. All glass walls and plush lounges, dim gold lighting that clung to skin like honey, and music that never rose above a sensual hum. Everything in here was designed to make you forget who you were outside of it.

And tonight, that suited you just fine.

You had a drink in hand—something blue and expensive and far too smooth—and laughter on your lips. Not your usual politician’s laughter either. No smirking charm or polite chuckles. This one was real, deep in your belly, a rare sound that only came out when you were far enough removed from the Senate floor.

“Tell me again how you managed to silence Mas Amedda without being sanctioned,” you asked through your grin, blinking slowly at Mon Mothma from across the low-glass table.

“I didn’t silence him,” Mon said, sipping delicately at a glowing green drink. “I simply implied I’d reveal the contents of his personal expenditures file if he didn’t yield his five minutes of floor time.”

“You blackmailed him,” Chuchi said, eyes wide and utterly delighted. “Mon.”

“It wasn’t blackmail. It was diplomacy. With consequences.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Stars above, I love you.”

You weren’t the only one laughing. Bail Organa was seated nearby with his jacket off and sleeves rolled, regaling Padmé and Senator Ask Aak with a dry tale about a conference that nearly turned into a duel. For once, there were no lobbyists, no cameras, no agendas. Just the quiet, rare illusion of ease among people who usually bore the weight of worlds.

But ease was temporary. The night wore on, and senators began to peel away one by one—some called back to work, others escorted home under guard, a few sneaking off with less noble intentions. Mon and Chuchi left together, promising to check in on you the next day. Padmé disappeared with only a look and a knowing smile.

You, however, weren’t ready to go.

Not until the lights got just a bit too warm and the drinks turned your blood to sugar. Not until the music softened your spine and left your thoughts curling in all directions.

By the time you left the booth, your heels wobbled. You weren’t drunk-drunk. Just the kind of warm that made everything feel funny and your judgment slightly off. Enough to skip the staff-speeder and walk yourself toward the street-level lift like a very determined, very unstable senator.

You barely made it past the threshold of the club when someone stepped into your path.

“Senator.”

That voice.

Low. Smooth. Metal-wrapped silk.

You blinked, head tilting up.

Commander Thorn.

Helmet tucked under one arm, brow slightly raised, red armor catching the glint of the city lights like lacquered flame. His expression was hard to read—professional, always—but it wasn’t Fox-level impassive. There was a quiet alertness in his eyes, and something… else. Something you couldn’t name through the fuzz of your thoughts.

You gave him a slow once-over, then grinned.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the charming one.”

Thorn’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

“You’re leaving without an escort.”

“Can’t imagine why. I’m obviously walking in a very straight line.”

You took a bold step and swerved instantly.

He caught your elbow in one gloved hand, his grip steady, sure. “Right.”

You laughed softly, not pulling away. “Did Fox send you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I was stationed nearby. Saw you entered and didn’t leave with the other senators. Waited.”

You blinked, the words catching up slowly.

“You waited?”

His tone was casual. “Senators don’t always make smart choices after midnight.”

You scoffed. “And you’re here to protect me from what—bad decisions?”

“Possibly yourself.”

You leaned in slightly, still smiling. “That doesn’t sound very neutral, Commander.”

“It’s not.”

That surprised you.

Not the words—the admission.

He guided you toward the secure transport platform. You walked close, his arm still steadying you, your perfume drifting between you like static. You felt him glance down at you again, and for once, you didn’t deflect it with a joke. You let the silence stretch, warm and a little unsteady, like everything else tonight.

When you reached your private residence, he walked you to the lift, hand never once leaving your arm. It wasn’t possessive. It was watchful. Protective. Unspoken.

The lift doors opened.

You turned to him. Slower now. Sober enough to remember the mask you usually wore—but too tired to lift it fully.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “Really.”

“I’d rather see you escorted than carried,” he said simply.

A beat passed.

“I think I like you better outside of duty,” you said, voice quieter. “You’re a little more human.”

And for the first time, really, Thorn smiled.

Not a twitch. Not a ghost.

A real one.

It was gone before you could memorize it.

“Goodnight, Senator.”

You stepped into the lift.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

The doors closed, and your chest ached with something that wasn’t quite intoxication.

⸻

You barely had time to swallow your caf when the doors to your office hissed open without announcement.

That never happened.

You looked up mid-sip, scowling—only to find Senator Bail Organa storming in with the calm urgency of a man who never rushed unless the building was on fire.

“Good morning,” you said warily. “Is something—”

“There’s been a threat,” he interrupted. “Targeted. Multiple senators. Chuchi, Mon, myself. You.”

You lowered your mug, slowly. “What kind of threat?”

Bail handed you a datapad with an encrypted message flashing in red. You scanned it quickly.

Anonymous intel. Holo-snaps of your recent movements. Discussions leaked. Your voting history underlined in red. The threat was vague—too vague for your comfort. But it didn’t feel like a bluff.

And it had your name in it.

You exhaled sharply. “Any idea who’s behind it?”

“Too early to confirm. Intelligence thinks it’s separatist-aligned extremists or a shadow cell embedded in the lower districts.”

“Of course they do.”

Bail gave you a meaningful look. “Security’s being doubled. The Chancellor’s assigning escorts for all senators flagged.”

You raised a brow. “Let me guess. I don’t get to pick mine.”

“No. But I thought you’d appreciate knowing who was assigned to you.”

The door opened again before you could ask.

Two sets of footsteps. Distinct.

Heavy. Precise.

You didn’t have to turn around to know.

Fox.

Thorn.

Of course.

Fox was already scanning the room. No helmet, but sharp as a knife, his eyes flicking to every shadow, every corner of your office like you were under attack now. Thorn walked half a step behind, expression calm, posture less rigid, but still unmistakably alert.

“I see we’re all being very subtle about this,” you muttered, glancing at the armed men flanking your office now like guards of war.

“You’re on the list,” Fox said. His voice was like crushed gravel—low, even, never cruel, but always tired.

“What list, exactly?” you asked, crossing your arms. “The ‘Too Mouthy to Survive’ list?”

Thorn’s mouth twitched again—always the one with the faintest hint of humor behind the armor.

“The High Risk list,” Fox replied simply.

“And how long will I be babysat?”

“Until the threat is neutralized or your corpse is cold,” Thorn said, deadpan.

You blinked.

“Was that a joke?”

“I don’t joke.”

“He does,” Fox said without looking at him. “Badly.”

“I hate this already,” you muttered, rubbing your temple.

Bail cleared his throat. “They’ll rotate between shifts. Never both at the same time, unless the situation escalates.”

Your head snapped up. “Both?”

“Yes,” Bail said flatly. “Two of the best. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“I’d feel luckier if my personal space wasn’t about to become a crime scene.”

Thorn stepped forward, tone gentler than Fox’s but still authoritative. “We’re not here to interfere with your duties. Just protect you while you do them.”

“And that includes sitting in on committee meetings? Speeches? Dinner receptions?”

Fox nodded. “All of it.”

You looked between them—Fox, with his granite stare and professional distance, and Thorn, who still hadn’t quite stopped looking at you since last night.

Something in your gut twisted. Not fear. Not annoyance.

Something dangerous.

This wasn’t just political anymore.

You were being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

And these two were now your only shield between that threat and your life.

You hated the idea of needing protection.

You hated how safe you felt around them even more.

⸻

The Senate chamber was unusually quiet.

Not silent—never silent—but that thick kind of quiet that came before a storm. Murmurs dipped beneath the domes, senators eyeing each other with the unease of shared vulnerability. No one said it outright, but the threat had spread. Everyone had heard.

And everyone knew some of them were marked.

You sat straighter in your pod than usual, spine taut, eyes fixed on nothing and everything. You’d spoken already—brief, pointed, and barbed. You had no patience today for pacifying words or empty declarations of unity.

Somewhere behind you, still and unreadable as always, stood Commander Fox.

He hadn’t flinched when your voice rose, hadn’t twitched when you called out the hypocrisy of a few senior senators who once claimed loyalty to neutrality but now conveniently aligned with protection-heavy legislation.

Fox didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

His presence was a loaded weapon holstered at your back.

You ended your speech with a clipped nod, disengaged the microphone, and leaned back in your seat. The applause was polite. The glares from across the chamber were not.

When the hearing adjourned, your pod retracted slowly, returning to the docking tier. You stood, heels clicking against the durasteel, and without needing to signal him, Fox stepped into motion behind you.

He said nothing.

You said nothing—at first.

But halfway down the polished hallway leading back toward your office, you tilted your head slightly.

“You know, you’re a hard one to read, Commander.”

Fox’s gaze didn’t waver from the path ahead. “That’s intentional.”

“I figured.” You glanced sideways. “But you’re really good at it. Do you even blink?”

“Occasionally.”

Your lips twitched, a smile curling despite yourself.

“Not a lot of people can keep up with me,” you said, voice softer now. “Even fewer try.”

Fox didn’t reply immediately. But something shifted.

Not in what he said—but in what he didn’t.

He moved just half a step closer.

Most wouldn’t have noticed. But you were trained to pick up the smallest things—micro-expressions, body language, political deflections hidden in tone. And you noticed now that he was watching you more directly. That his shoulders weren’t held quite as far from yours. That his footsteps echoed in perfect sync with yours.

You turned your head toward him, brow raised.

“I thought proximity would make you uncomfortable,” he said, finally.

You blinked. “Because I’m a senator?”

“Because you don’t like being watched.”

“Everyone watches senators,” you said. “You’re just better at it.”

Another step.

Closer.

He still didn’t look at you outright, but you felt it. That shift in awareness. That quiet, focused gravity pulling toward you without making a sound.

“What’s your read on me, then?” you asked.

Fox stopped walking.

So did you.

He finally turned his head. Just slightly. Just enough.

“You’re smart enough to know what not to say in public,” he said. “But reckless enough to say it anyway.”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between offense and amusement.

“And that makes me what? A liability?”

“It makes you visible,” Fox said. “Which is more dangerous than anything else.”

Your mouth was dry. “Is that your professional opinion?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yes.”

You felt the air shift between you. Unspoken, heavy.

Then, just like that, he stepped ahead of you again, resuming the walk as though the pause hadn’t happened at all.

You followed.

But your heart was beating faster.

And you weren’t sure why.

You were almost at your office when the change in guard was announced.

“Senator,” Fox said, pausing by the lift. “My shift’s ending. Commander Thorn will take over from here.”

You opened your mouth to ask something—anything—but he was already stepping back. Already gone.

And just like that, you felt it.

The cold absence where his presence had been.

The lift doors opened before the silence had a chance to stretch too far.

“Senator,” Thorn greeted, stepping out with that easy, assured confidence that Fox never wore.

His helmet was clipped to his belt this time, revealing the full sharpness of his jaw, the subtle smirk tugging one corner of his mouth upward. His expression was casual—friendly, even—but his eyes swept you over with that same tactical precision as Fox’s.

You noticed it, even if others wouldn’t.

“Commander Thorn,” you said, brushing a stray strand of hair back. “How fortunate. I was just getting bored of no conversation.”

Thorn chuckled. “That sounds like Fox.”

“He said maybe twelve words the entire time.”

“Four of them were probably your name and title.”

You smirked, but your tone turned dry. “And you’re any different?”

He fell into step beside you without needing to be told. “Maybe. Depends.”

“On?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Whether you want someone who listens, or someone who talks.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting that level of insight. “Bold for a man I barely know.”

“I’d say we know each other better than most already,” he said casually. “I’ve seen you argue with half the Senate, smile at the rest, and stumble out of a club at 0200 pretending you weren’t drunk.”

Your cheeks flushed. “I was not pretending.”

He grinned. “Then you were very convincing.”

You reached your office doors. The security droid scanned you and unlocked with a soft click. You didn’t go in right away.

“You’re not like him,” you said after a beat.

“Fox?” Thorn’s brow lifted. “No. He’s the wall. I’m the gate.”

You gave him a look.

“That’s either poetic or deeply concerning.”

He leaned slightly closer—close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the sheer reality of the man behind the armor. “Just means I’m easier to talk to.”

You didn’t respond immediately.

But your fingers lingered a little longer on the door panel than they needed to.

“I’ll be inside for a few hours,” you said finally, voice softer now.

Thorn didn’t step back. “I’ll be right here.”

The door closed between you, but your heart was still beating just a little too loud.

⸻

You were seated at your desk, halfway through tearing apart a policy proposal when the alarms flared to life—blaring red lights streaking across the transparisteel windows of your office.

Your comms crackled a second later.

“All personnel, code red. Attack in progress. Eastern Senate wing compromised.”

You stood so fast your chair tipped over.

Outside your door, Thorn’s voice was already sharp and commanding.

“Stay inside, Senator. Lock the doors.”

“Thorn—”

“I said lock it.”

You hesitated for only a second before slamming your palm against the panel. The doors sealed shut with a hiss, cutting off the sounds beyond.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The east wing. You didn’t need a layout map to know who worked down there.

Mon Mothma.

Riyo Chuchi.

You turned toward your comm panel and opened a direct line.

It didn’t go through.

The silence that followed was worse than any explosion.

Moments passed. Five. Ten. Long enough for doubt to slither into your chest.

Then the door unlocked.

You turned quickly—but not in fear. Readiness.

Thorn stepped inside, blaster still drawn. His armor was singed, one pauldron scraped, the other glinting with something wet and copper-dark.

“Are they okay?” you asked, voice too sharp, too desperate.

“One confirmed injured,” Thorn said. “Not fatal. Attackers fled. Still sweeping the halls.”

You exhaled, relief unspooling painfully down your spine.

Thorn crossed the room to you, checking the windows before stepping back toward the door.

“I’m getting you out,” he said.

“Now?”

“It’s not safe here.”

You followed him without hesitation.

But just before the hallway opened fully before you, another figure joined—emerging from the opposite end with dark armor, dark eyes, and a darker expression.

Fox.

He didn’t speak. Just looked at Thorn. Then at you.

Then back at Thorn.

Thorn gave a small, dry nod. “Guess command figured double was safer.”

Fox stepped into pace beside you, opposite Thorn.

Neither man said a word.

But you felt it.

The change. The pressure. The electricity.

Both commanders moved in unison—professional, focused, unshakable. But their attention wasn’t just on the halls or the shadows. It was on each other. Measuring. Reading. Holding something back.

And you?

You were caught directly between them.

Literally.

And, for the first time, maybe not unwillingly.

The Senate had been locked down, but your apartment—tucked within the guarded diplomat district—was cleared for return. Not safe, not exactly, but safer than a building that had just seen smoke and fire.

Fox and Thorn flanked you again.

The hover transport dropped you three streets out, citing security rerouting, so the rest of the way had to be walked. Late-night fog curled between the towers, headlights casting long shadows.

You should’ve been quiet. Should’ve been tense.

But something about the presence of both commanders beside you—so alike and yet impossibly different—made your voice turn lighter. Bolder.

“I feel like I’m being escorted by a wall and a statue,” you teased, glancing sideways. “Guess which is which.”

Thorn let out a low snort, barely audible.

Fox, predictably, did not react.

You smiled a little. Then pressed further.

“You really don’t say much, do you, Commander?” you asked, turning slightly toward Fox as your heels clicked against the pavement.

“Only when necessary.”

“Lucky for me I enjoy unnecessary things.”

Fox’s eyes didn’t flicker. Not outwardly. But he said nothing, which somehow made the game more interesting.

You leaned in, just enough to brush near his armor as you passed a narrow alley. “What if I said it’s necessary for me to hear you say something soft? Maybe something charming?”

Fox didn’t stop walking. But his gaze turned fully to you now, sharp and unreadable.

“Then I’d say you’re testing me,” he said lowly.

Your breath caught for a beat.

Behind you, Thorn cleared his throat—just once, quiet but pointed.

You looked back at him with a sly smile. “Don’t worry, Commander. I’m not starting a fight. Just making conversation.”

“You’re good at that,” Thorn said, polite but cool.

Was that… jealousy? No. Not quite. But close enough to touch it.

You reached your door and turned toward both men.

“Are either of you coming inside?” you asked, only half joking.

Fox didn’t answer. Thorn gave you a knowing smile.

“Not unless it’s protocol, Senator.”

You shrugged dramatically. “Shame.”

The locks activated with a soft click. You turned just before stepping through the threshold.

“Goodnight, Commander Thorn. Commander Fox.”

Fox gave you a single nod.

Thorn, ever the warmer one, offered a parting smile. “Sleep easy, Senator. We’ve got eyes on your building all night.”

You stepped inside.

And as the door closed behind you, you pressed your back to it… smiling. Just a little.

One was a wall. The other a gate.

And both were beginning to open.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Has this been done yet

Scorch should be 100% silly but the man who cracks most jokes something something

Inspired by @minosprimeenjoyer's command batch version

“The Brightest Flame”

Gregor x Fem!Reader

Inspired by “The Last Goodbye” by Billy Boyd

The desert winds of Seelos whispered through the rusted bones of the old Republic walker.

Gregor sat at the top of a jagged ridge, legs dangling over the edge like a boy far younger than the years he wore in his bones. You sat beside him in silence, watching the sun fall slowly into the red horizon. The heat clung to your skin, but his shoulder was warm in a different way.

You glanced at him. He was smiling, a faint, tired little thing.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Gregor hummed, voice gravelly but calm. “Guess I’ve said all the crazy things already.”

You chuckled softly. “Not all of them.”

He turned to you then—eyes bright, clear. Not like they used to be. Not the dazed flicker of a soldier half-lost in his own mind. These days, there were more good hours than bad ones. More memory than confusion.

You reached over, brushing a curl of silvered hair from his brow. “You’ve come a long way, you know.”

“So have you.”

“I didn’t have to claw my way out of an explosion and then survive a war I barely remember,” you said.

He tilted his head. “No, you just chose to stay. With me. That’s a different kind of hard.”

The wind picked up. A low, lonely sound that echoed like old battlefields buried in the sand.

Gregor’s smile faded, just a little.

“I think about them sometimes,” he admitted. “My brothers. Darman. Niner. The others I can’t remember.”

You didn’t speak. You just let him.

“I remember fire. And noise. And… laughing. I think I laughed a lot back then.”

“You still do.”

He shook his head gently. “No. Not the same. That laugh back then—it didn’t have so many ghosts in it.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones.

“I love your laugh now. Even when it’s haunted.”

He turned to you, really turned, and the ache in his expression nearly undid you.

“You know what scares me?” he asked softly.

You waited.

“That I’ll forget everything. That one day, I’ll wake up, and your name will be gone. Your face. This moment.”

You gripped his hand tighter. “Then I’ll remind you.”

He let out a shaky breath, lips curving into something fragile. “You’d do that?”

You leaned in, resting your head on his shoulder, heart aching in the quiet.

“Every single time.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The sky bled into twilight—soft, violet hues kissing the edges of the wrecked cruiser below. It was beautiful in a way only something broken could be.

Gregor broke the silence with a whisper.

“You know that song you sing sometimes? About farewells?”

You nodded slowly. “‘The Last Goodbye.’”

He tilted his head against yours. “Sing it again?”

Your voice was soft, barely above the wind. The words carried into the dark like starlight.

“I saw the light fade from the sky

On the wind I heard a sigh…”

Gregor closed his eyes.

You didn’t sing to fix him. You sang because he deserved to be remembered. To have beauty tethered to his broken edges.

You sang until your voice trembled.

Until the stars blinked awake above you.

Until his breathing slowed and steadied, his hand never leaving yours.

And when the final verse faded—

“Though I leave, I’ve gone too soon

I am not leaving you…”

Gregor whispered, voice rough:

“I love you.”

You smiled through tears. “I love you, too.”

And in the stillness, wrapped in the ghosts of his past and the promise of your presence, Gregor held on.

To the moment.

To you.

To what little peace he had left.

i made this instead of doing the things ive been "forgetting" to do

Hello! I had an idea for a Kix x Fem!Reader where she transfers into his medbay but she stands out because she remembers every clones name. Regardless if she hasn’t even met them she has read all the files and committed them to memory and he’s like astonished but also touched. Maybe his brothers are like “if you don’t make a move I will” Hope this is good! Have a good weekend! ♥️

“First‑Name Basis”

Kix x Reader

Hyperspace thrummed beyond the transparisteel ports while Kix tried to tame the Resolute’s perpetually crowded med‑bay. Bacta monitors chimed, troopers squabbled over whose scar looked “coolest,” and Kix’s gloves were still sticky with drying crimson when the hatch whispered open.

A quiet but confident voice announced, “New med‑tech reporting, sir—[Y/N].”

Kix flicked off his gloves, surprised. “You picked a kriffing busy shift to arrive—welcome.”

From the nearest cot, Hardcase crowed, “What d’you bet she faints when she sees my arm?”

You crossed to him without blinking. “CT‑0217 Hardcase—through‑and‑through blaster hit, distal humerus, yesterday. Dermabind’s due for a swap.”

Hardcase shut up so fast Fives snorted.

You pointed down the line:

“CT‑5597 Jesse—rib bruise, de‑pressurised plating on R‑3. Three‑hour ice intervals.

“CT‑5555 Fives—fragment nick, upper thigh; you’ll pretend it doesn’t hurt until it infects.”

“CT‑0000 Dogma—scalp laceration, eight stitches. Stop picking at them.”

Each trooper stared like you’d grown a second head.

Kix folded his arms. “You read our charts?”

“Memorised the battalion manifest on the shuttle. Names separate patients from barcodes.”

A low whistle: Jesse grinned around a pain‑killer stick. “Kix, vod—if you don’t lock that down, I’m escorting her to 79’s myself.”

Fives elbowed him. “Brother, that’s my line.”

Dogma muttered, “Show some discipline.”

“Show some charm,” Fives shot back.

Kix cleared his throat, ears reddening. “Settle, vod. Let the medic work—unless you want a protocol droid doing your stitches.”

⸻

Kix found you re‑stocking kolto packs. “Most rookies need a week to learn nicknames; you quoted service numbers.”

“You’re not rookies—you’re veterans. Acting like it matters.”

His voice softened. “We spend our lives as copies. Remembering us by name… that’s a rare kind of medicine.”

Across the bay, Hardcase bellowed, “Kix! She fixin’ your ego yet?”

Jesse added, “Timer’s ticking, sir!”

You hid a smile. “I still need orientation, Kix. Maybe… a tour of the ‘cultural hub’ I’ve heard about?”

Kix’s grin was pure relief—and a little wonder. “Med‑officer‑ordered R&R, 79’s cantina, 2000. Mandatory.”

Hardcase whooped. “Ha! Called it!”

⸻

Blue and gold holo‑lights flashed off clone armor stacked by the door. Fives tried teaching you a rigged sabacc hand; Jesse heckled from behind; Dogma nursed one drink like it was contraband; Hardcase danced on a tabletop until Rex appeared, helmet tucked under his arm.

Rex eyed the scene, then you. “Heard the new medic can ID every trooper in the Legion.”

“Only the ones who’ve been shot today, sir,” you said, straight‑faced.

Hardcase cheered. Jesse rapped knuckles on the table. Even Rex let a ghost of a smile slip before nodding to Kix: Good find.

Jesse leaned close while Kix ordered drinks. “Take care of him, cyar’ika. Our medic patches everyone but himself.”

You watched Kix laugh, shoulders finally loose for the first time all day. “Count on it,” you said, lifting a glass.

Across the cantina, Hardcase elbowed Fives. “Told you names matter.”

Fives clinked his mug to Jesse’s. “Here’s to finally being more than numbers.”

And—for a few riotous hours beneath 79’s flickering lights—every soldier of the 501st felt like the only trooper in the Grand Army, thanks to one medic who never forgot a name.