“The Butcher And The Wolf” Pt.1

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.

Her planet. Under threat.

The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.

And she was not going to watch her world burn again.

She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.

The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.

“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”

Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.

Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.

“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”

“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”

Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.

The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.

Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.

She took a breath.

The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.

She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.

The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”

Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.

As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.

For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.

She felt like a commander again.

Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.

⸻

The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.

Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.

“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.

“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”

“No.”

The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”

“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”

“It’s sacred ground.”

Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”

Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.

“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.

“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”

“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”

“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.

“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”

Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.

The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”

“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.

“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.

She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”

Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”

“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”

Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.

She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.

She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.

Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.

Respect.

It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.

And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—

If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?

It disturbed him.

He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.

But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.

The trap was set.

From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.

She was a vision of history reborn.

General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.

“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.

Sniper bolts rained from above.

The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.

And then it broke.

A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.

The blast hit near the senator.

She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.

“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.

“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”

Her people faltered only for a moment.

Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.

From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.

It was something else.

The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.

And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.

Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.

Not here. Not again.

She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.

A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.

Too slow.

She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.

“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.

From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”

“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

He said nothing.

Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.

Trapped.

The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.

With something to protect.

She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.

They’d won.

The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.

Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.

“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.

Another pause.

Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”

⸻

The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.

Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.

The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.

Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.

The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.

Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.

She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.

“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”

“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”

She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”

“Correct.”

She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”

A pause.

“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”

“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”

He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:

“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”

She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”

“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”

She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.

“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”

He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—

“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”

“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”

The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”

The beeping started next.

Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.

“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.

She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.

“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”

She flicked water at it.

“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.

The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.

She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.

Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.

R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”

His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.

Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.

“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.

Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”

BANG.

A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.

“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”

The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”

“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”

“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”

Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”

“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”

“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.

The astromech let out a smug beep.

Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”

“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.

“You do,” the Senator stated.

The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”

Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.

She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“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

Radiant. 

“Shadows of Theed”

Boss (RC-1138) x Reader

Theed’s skyline shimmered under the afternoon sun, its golden domes reflecting the light in a display of serene beauty. Yet beneath this tranquil facade, tension simmered. The recent assassination attempts on Queen Jamillia and Senator Padmé Amidala had prompted the Royal Security Forces to request additional protection from the Republic.

You stood at attention in the palace courtyard, your crimson uniform crisp, hand resting on the hilt of your blaster. As a member of the Royal Naboo Guard, your duty was to protect the monarchy and its representatives. Today, that duty extended to welcoming the Republic’s elite clone commando unit: Delta Squad.

The low hum of a Republic gunship grew louder as it descended, kicking up dust and causing your cape to flutter. The ramp lowered, revealing four armored figures stepping out in formation.

Leading them was RC-1138, known as Boss. His orange-striped armor bore the marks of countless battles, and his posture exuded authority.

Behind him, RC-1140, or Fixer, moved with calculated precision. His green-accented armor was immaculate, and his visor scanned the surroundings methodically.

To Fixer’s left was RC-1207, Sev. His armor bore red markings resembling blood splatter, a reflection of his grim sense of humor and reputation as a fierce sniper.

Bringing up the rear was RC-1262, Scorch. His armor was marked with yellow accents, and he carried himself with a relaxed confidence.

As they approached, Boss stepped forward, his helmet concealing his expression.

“Sergeant RC-1138, reporting in,” he stated, his voice modulated through the helmet’s speaker. “Delta Squad is at your service.”

You offered a formal nod. “Welcome to Theed, Sergeant. I’m Lieutenant [Y/N], Royal Naboo Guard. We’ve been briefed on your assignment.”

Boss inclined his head slightly. “Understood. Our primary objective is to ensure the safety of Queen Jamillia and Senator Amidala.”

“Correct,” you affirmed. “We’ll coordinate patrols and share intelligence. Your squad will be integrated into our security protocols.”

Behind Boss, Scorch leaned slightly toward Sev and whispered, “Think they have any good caf here?”

Sev replied dryly, “As long as it doesn’t taste like ration packs, I’ll consider it a luxury.”

Fixer, without looking up from his wrist-mounted datapad, interjected, “Focus, Deltas. We’re here for a mission, not a vacation.”

Boss turned his head slightly. “Maintain discipline. We’re guests here.”

You raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Your squad has a unique dynamic.”

Boss’s tone remained neutral. “We operate efficiently.”

⸻

Over the next few days, Delta Squad integrated into the palace’s security framework. Joint patrols were established, and you found yourself frequently paired with Boss. His stoic nature made conversation sparse, but his presence was reassuring.

One evening, during a perimeter check, you decided to break the silence.

“Your squadmates have distinct personalities,” you observed.

Boss glanced at you. “They’re effective.”

“I’ve noticed,” you replied. “Scorch’s humor, Sev’s intensity, Fixer’s precision. And you—you’re the anchor.”

He paused, considering your words. “Leadership requires stability.”

You nodded. “It’s commendable.”

A brief silence settled before he spoke again. “Your team is well-trained.”

“Thank you,” you said. “We take pride in our duty.”

As the patrol continued, a comfortable silence enveloped you both, the foundation of mutual respect beginning to form.

⸻

The days turned into weeks, and the collaboration between your unit and Delta Squad deepened. Shared meals and joint exercises fostered camaraderie. Scorch’s jokes became a familiar background noise, Sev’s rare smirks were victories, and Fixer’s occasional nods signaled approval.

With Boss, the connection grew subtly. Shared glances during briefings, synchronized movements during drills, and the occasional exchange of dry humor.

One night, after a successful operation thwarting an assassination attempt, you found yourselves alone on a balcony overlooking Theed.

“The city’s peaceful tonight,” you remarked.

Boss nodded. “A welcome change.”

You turned to him. “Do you ever think about life beyond the war?”

He was silent for a moment. “Sometimes. But duty comes first.”

You smiled softly. “Always the soldier.”

He looked at you, his gaze intense. “It’s who I am.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping closer, “there’s more to you.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but the way his hand brushed against yours spoke volumes.

The city lights glittered below like the reflection of a thousand quiet thoughts. The silence between you and Boss wasn’t strained—it was gentle, natural. It had become that way over the last few weeks. You stood shoulder to shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth of his armor radiating softly through the Naboo evening chill.

His helmet was still on, the ever-present barrier between his world and yours. But something in his posture shifted, a subtle drop in his shoulders, a small exhale that sounded more like a sigh than static.

Then—quietly—he said, “It’s strange.”

You turned to look at him. “What is?”

“Peace.” A beat. “This planet. The quiet.” He paused, like he was deciding whether to say more. “I’m used to marching into warzones. Places that smell like carbon and blood. Where the air’s thick with ash and tension. But here… it’s almost too quiet. Makes you feel like… something could go wrong any second.”

You studied him for a moment, surprised he was sharing this. “Maybe it’s not that something will go wrong. Maybe it’s just that you’ve never known anything but chaos.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, his hands came up to his helmet. You heard the hiss of pressure release before he pulled it off and cradled it against his side.

This was the first time you’d seen his face. You had imagined it—many times—but the reality was softer than you’d expected. Strong features, yes, but tired eyes. Eyes that had seen too much, too fast. He looked younger without the helmet, and older all at once.

He didn’t look at you right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the skyline.

“I don’t usually take it off,” he admitted. “Feels… exposed.”

You smiled gently. “You don’t have to explain. But thank you for trusting me.”

His eyes finally met yours then, sharp and searching, but not cold. “You’re different from the officers I’ve worked with before.”

“Good different?” you teased softly.

He didn’t smile, exactly—but something softened around his mouth. “Real different.”

You leaned against the railing beside him, your fingers brushing his. This time, he didn’t move away. He turned his hand slightly until his gloved pinky hooked around yours.

“I don’t know what happens after this assignment,” you said quietly. “But I know I’ll remember this. You.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

The moment stretched—not romantic in the overly dramatic way holodramas would tell it, but intimate in its honesty. The weight of your fingers against each other. The hush of the Naboo breeze. The flickering of torchlight behind you, and the way his gaze lingered on your face like he was memorizing it.

And then, with the kind of quiet confidence that came from someone who rarely acted on impulse, Boss leaned in slightly—slowly, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. His forehead came to rest gently against yours. It was a simple thing. No kiss, no dramatics. Just contact. Shared breath. A moment stolen from the endless march of duty.

“I can’t afford to be soft,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “But you make me want to be.”

You closed your eyes, forehead still pressed to his. “Then let this be the place where you can.”

His hand, calloused and heavy, rose to cup the side of your neck for a second before falling away. Not because he didn’t want more—but because he wasn’t ready yet. And maybe you weren’t either. But that was okay. It was enough.

Tonight, it was enough.

Hiya! I just wanted to know if you song requests for fics before I asked!

-🤍

Heya! I certainly do x

“War on Two Fronts” pt.4

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The skies of Aleen burned amber with the coming dusk. Ashen winds carried whispers through the forests — voices of a people you’d once sworn to protect. Now you were back again, years older, far more jaded, but somehow still the same.

Your boots pressed into soft moss as you walked alone through the dense forest paths. Lanterns swung overhead, casting warm halos across carved stone shrines and winding wooden bridges. You knew every bend of this land—every whisper between the trees.

It was surreal returning here without a battalion behind you. No clones. No Jedi. No command structure. Just you, your words, and your past with these people.

You passed a familiar tree with painted markings—children had once drawn them when you’d last been stationed here. A flutter of warmth struck you as an elder spotted you.

“Master Jedi,” their leader said with a soft smile.

You bowed your head. “It’s good to see you again.”

Your mission was simple in theory: rekindle an alliance with the people before Separatist influence reached them again. But nothing about this place, or this war, was ever simple.

And as the nights stretched on, you missed… them.

Bacara. Rex. Each so different. One who rarely spoke but always saw. One who listened, even when you didn’t speak. Neither here. Just you—and the echo of everything unspoken.

⸻

Commander Bacara stood at parade rest beside Master Ki-Adi-Mundi as mission projections flickered across the holotable. Opposite them, Rex stood beside Anakin and Ahsoka, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm.

None of them spoke at first. The map of the outer rim planet hovered between them—a quiet reminder of who wasn’t in the room.

“She’s managing well on her own,” Ahsoka said lightly, breaking the silence. “The locals trust her. That’s half the battle already won.”

Mundi offered a nod, but Bacara’s gaze never shifted from the holo. “It’s dangerous. Alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Rex said, just a little too sharply.

Anakin caught it.

So did Mundi.

A beat passed before Ki-Adi-Mundi turned, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Commander Bacara, has General [Y/N] reported any signs of Separatist movement?”

“Negative,” Bacara said without pause. “But she’s a Jedi, not a negotiator. These types of missions require—”

“She’s handled far more volatile diplomacy than this,” Rex interrupted. “And better than some council members.”

Mundi raised a brow. “Careful, Captain.”

Rex’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more.

Ahsoka looked between the two clones, then stepped forward, trying to ease the tension. “She’ll be fine. She’s got that Windu resilience.”

Bacara’s shoulders barely moved, but Anakin noticed the tick in his jaw. “You don’t agree?” Skywalker asked.

“She’s not indestructible,” Bacara said.

“No,” Anakin replied, coolly. “But she’s not your burden, Commander.”

The room quieted again. Cold. Sharp-edged.

Finally, Mundi spoke. “Personal entanglements have no place in war. This is why Jedi do not form attachments.”

Neither Rex nor Bacara responded.

But Ahsoka’s eyes flicked between them—both still as stone, both burning with something just beneath the surface.

The kind of storm you didn’t see until it was already overhead.

⸻

You hated caves.

You hated the stale air, the way sound echoed wrong, the weight of stone pressing down on your shoulders like a ghost. The Aleena had guided you this deep to show the root of the problem—something poisoning the waters, causing tremors in their cities, and killing their sacred roots.

You knelt beside the cracked fissure, reaching out with the Force. What answered was not nature.

Something foreign slithered beneath. Something droid.

You rose quickly, turning to the elder at your side. “The Separatists are here,” you said. “Or they were.”

The elder clicked his tongue anxiously. “Many of our kind are trapped deeper down. The tremors sealed the path. We can’t reach them. We cannot fight.”

Of course. That was why you were here. No army. No squad. Just you.

You weren’t enough this time.

You stepped away, pulling out your comm and staring down at it for a long moment.

Your gut said Rex. He’d listen. He’d come. He’d believe you.

But this… this wasn’t a clone problem. This wasn’t about blaster fire or tactics.

This was about digging, about seismic shifts and local customs. This was about the Force.

You hated what came next.

You toggled to the channel you never used.

“Master Mundi.”

A pause.

“Yes, General?”

“I need assistance on Aleen.”

A beat passed. Long enough for you to imagine his smug expression. But when he replied, his voice was firm, professional.

“What’s the situation?”

You relayed the details quickly, keeping emotion out of your tone. You didn’t need him judging your fear or frustration.

“I’ll divert reinforcements immediately,” he said. “Commander Bacara is with me. He’ll lead the extraction.”

Of course he would.

“Understood,” you replied. “Coordinates sent. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“You won’t have to for long.”

You hated that he sounded almost… kind.

You ended the call and stood still, listening to the rumble of distant tunnels. Soon, Bacara would be back in your orbit. And despite everything between you, you were more afraid of what you might feel than what you’d face below ground.

⸻

The gunship kicked up waves of dust and gravel as it touched down on Aleen’s rocky surface. Commander Bacara descended the ramp first, helmet sealed, pauldron stiff against his broad shoulders. Behind him strode Master Ki-Adi-Mundi, robes whipping in the wind, brows drawn tight as he surveyed the landscape.

“Where is she?” Mundi asked, stepping up beside Bacara as clone troopers fanned out to secure the perimeter.

Bacara didn’t answer right away. He was already scanning the data feed on his wrist, synced to the coordinates you had sent. When he finally spoke, it was short and clipped. “She went in alone.”

Mundi’s tone sharpened. “Of course she did.”

The tension between the two men crackled like static in the charged Aleen air. Bacara said nothing more, but the slight shift in his stance suggested something deeper than frustration. He’d read the logs. He’d heard the tail end of your conversation with Windu. He’d heard everything.

“Troopers!” Bacara barked. “Sub-level breach—two klicks east. Move out.”

The team entered the caverns in formation. The air was thick, choked with the scent of burning oil and scorched stone. Laserfire echoed ahead.

Then, they found you.

You stood alone at the center of a collapsed chamber, half your robes burned, saber lit and crackling. At your feet were the remains of a Separatist tunneling droid. Around you, the wounded Aleena were huddled in the shadows, their eyes wide with awe and fear.

Bacara moved first.

He didn’t speak—just stepped forward, rifle raised as another wave of droids charged through a side tunnel. You looked back only briefly, the flicker of recognition passing quickly.

“Finally,” you said, flicking your saber back up. “Miss me?”

Bacara didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.

He opened fire.

Mundi moved next, stepping past you with deliberate purpose. “You disobeyed protocol,” he said, even as he slashed down a droid mid-step.

You parried a blow, spun, and exhaled. “Tell me after we survive this.”

The last droid fell. The smoke lingered.

You sat on a low stone, wiping your bloodied hand with a torn sleeve. Bacara stood nearby, silent as always, his armor dusted with ash and black carbon scoring.

He finally turned to you.

“You should’ve waited.”

You didn’t look at him. “I didn’t have time.”

“You could’ve died.”

You finally met his eyes.

“And you would’ve what? Reassigned me posthumously?”

He stiffened, jaw flexing behind the helmet. Mundi, overhearing, shot you both a look of utter exhaustion.

Bacara didn’t answer your jab. Instead, he just said:

“You held the line. Noted.”

He walked off, leaving you staring after him with a knot in your stomach—and a question in your chest you weren’t ready to ask.

⸻

The camp was quiet under the fractured sky. Fires burned low in shielded pits, and the wounded slept in narrow tents beneath emergency tarps. You sat apart from the clone medics and Jedi tents, nursing a shallow burn on your forearm with a stim salve. The adrenaline had worn off; all that was left now was the ache and the silence.

Heavy footfalls crunched the dirt behind you. You didn’t look. You already knew it was him.

“Commander,” you said softly, eyes still on your bandaged arm.

“General.”

A beat passed. You waited for him to walk away. He didn’t.

You finally turned to see Bacara standing there, helmet off, held against his side. His expression was as unreadable as ever—sharp eyes, tighter lips, a soldier carved from ice and iron.

“You need something?” you asked, voice thinner than you wanted.

He studied you. Not in the way a soldier sized up a threat—but in the way someone searched for a word they weren’t used to saying.

“You did well.”

You raised a brow. “Is that praise?”

“It’s an observation,” he replied.

You didn’t look up. “If you’re here to defend your spying again, don’t. We already did that.”

“No,” Bacara said. His voice was calm. Flat. “I’m not here for that.”

You glanced up at him. “Then what?”

He stood for a beat too long before finally sitting down on the opposite crate, across the fire from you. No one else was nearby. The clones had given you space—not out of fear, but respect. You’d earned that today. Even if Bacara hadn’t said a word about it.

You sighed. “You gonna judge me for my actions like Mundi too?”

“No.”

You finally looked at him properly. He wasn’t glaring. He wasn’t closed off, exactly. Just guarded. Like a soldier on unfamiliar terrain.

“What then?”

“I don’t think he sees what you see,” Bacara said, eyes flicking to the fire. “But you’re right about one thing—he sees potential in you that he’s never been able to define. That’s what makes him so… rigid around you.”

You blinked. “That sounds almost like an apology.”

He met your eyes. “It’s not. Just honesty.”

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You ever think about just saying what you mean without flanking it like an airstrike?”

“Too dangerous.”

You smiled, but only a little. “So what do you mean now?”

“I mean,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re reckless. Frustrating. You talk too much and question everything.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. This is going well.”

“But,” he added, and you stilled, “your instincts are good. Better than most Jedi I’ve fought beside.”

A pause. You stared at him.

“And,” he added again, almost like it hurt, “you weren’t wrong to call for help.”

You tilted your head. “You mean from Mundi, or from you?”

He didn’t answer. That was an answer in itself.

You softened a little, let yourself lean forward over the fire. “I was alone. Outnumbered. You would’ve done the same thing.”

“Probably,” Bacara admitted.

“But you’d still call me reckless for doing it.”

“Yes.”

You gave him a long look. “I said worse things about you to Mace, you know.”

His eyes flicked to yours, unreadable. “I know.”

“I didn’t mean all of it,” you said.

“I know that too.”

Another silence.

Then, from him, just barely audible:

“You’re not what I expected.”

You sat back, a flicker of heat rising to your cheeks. “You either, Commander.”

The silence settled between you again, less like tension this time—and more like something trying to become peace.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, The city-world glittered below, a sea of metal and movement. But inside the Temple, it was unusually quiet.

Rex stood just outside the Council Chambers, arms crossed behind his back, helmet off. His posture was military-perfect, but his eyes flicked to the arched window at the far end of the corridor every few seconds.

The last time he’d stood here, you were beside him, teasing him about being too stiff, too formal. He’d barely responded, but the corner of his mouth had twitched.

“Waiting for someone?”

Rex turned. Ahsoka approached, arms folded. She wasn’t smiling—just curious.

“General Skywalker asked me to debrief after the Christophis campaign,” Rex replied. “He’s late.”

Ahsoka stopped beside him and glanced up. “You seem… off.”

Rex gave her a sidelong look. “Do I?”

“You always do that thing with your jaw when you’re annoyed.” She mimicked him poorly, exaggerating the motion. “It’s like you’re chewing invisible rations.”

Rex chuckled, just barely. “That obvious, huh?”

Ahsoka leaned against the wall. “This about the General?”

Rex didn’t answer at first. Then: “Which one?”

Her smile faded. “So her.”

He looked down at his helmet. “Something changed on Aleen. I can’t explain it. But the way she looked when we saw her at the base… something’s different.”

“She looked tired,” Ahsoka said quietly. “And like she was holding something back.”

“Bacara was watching her the entire time,” Rex said, sharper now. “Like he was waiting for something.”

Ahsoka nodded slowly. “And you were doing the same.”

The silence stretched. Rex didn’t deny it.

“I’ve felt something,” Ahsoka said, lowering her voice. “A kind of… ripple in the Force. Like she’s a pebble that hit water and the waves are just now reaching us.”

Rex turned toward her. “You think she’s in danger?”

“I don’t know.” Ahsoka’s brow furrowed. “But something’s pulling at her. Pulling her toward something big. Or breaking.”

Rex stared ahead, jaw tight again. “If she gets reassigned again without warning—”

“She won’t tell you if she does,” Ahsoka said gently. “You know that.”

“I should’ve said something when I had the chance.”

“Maybe.” She hesitated. “But she knows. Trust me—she knows.”

The doors to the Council chamber finally hissed open. Anakin stepped out, waving them both in. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked to Rex for a beat too long.

Even he had noticed.

As they stepped inside, neither of them said it aloud—but something was coming. And she was at the center of it.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Name First, Then Trouble”

Fives x Female Reader

Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive

⸻

The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?

Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.

From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.

And tonight was no different.

Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.

Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”

You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”

He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”

You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”

Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”

“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”

He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”

From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”

“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.

“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”

You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.

“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”

You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”

Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”

Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.

“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.

His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”

You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”

Fives blinked. “Find out what?”

You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:

“If you want to come back to my apartment.”

Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.

“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.

“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.

You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”

Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.

⸻

The room was warm.

Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.

Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.

“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”

Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”

“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”

He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”

“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”

“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”

“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”

Fives groaned. “Both.”

A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:

“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”

You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”

“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”

You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.

He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”

“My name!” you said firmly.

“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”

You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”

Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”

You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”

He paused. “You don’t know?”

“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”

He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”

“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”

“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.

⸻

Echo was waiting for him.

Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.

Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.

“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”

Fives coughed. “Define fun.”

Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”

Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”

“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”

“You what?”

“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”

“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.

“Multiple times.”

“And you never told me?”

Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”

Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”

Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”

Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m accurate.”

Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”

Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.

“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”

“She has a last name?”

Clone Wars playing the imperial march every time Anakin is mildly inconvenienced will never not make me laugh.

strong desire for Echo to take a nice relaxing bath but also concerned about him electrocuting himself

“Crossfire” pt.6

Commander Cody x Reader x Captain Rex

The night air was still, too quiet for Coruscant. As if the city itself held its breath. The reader sat on the stone edge of a koi pond in the Jedi Temple gardens, picking at the frayed edge of her sleeve.

She hadn’t come here to pray. Or meditate. She came because she couldn’t breathe in her apartment anymore.

Kit Fisto approached silently, boots barely making a sound against the stones. She didn’t flinch when he spoke.

“You found the quietest corner of the Temple.”

“I didn’t think Jedi gardens were known for wild parties.”

He chuckled, easing down beside her, his presence—warm, calm, steady. It was infuriating how grounded he always was.

“You look better than this morning,” he said.

“I look like someone who kissed two men, woke up next to a Jedi Master, and has no idea what the hell she’s doing with her life.”

Kit’s smile widened. “I wasn’t going to say it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for getting me home.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks.”

They sat in silence, the pond rippling as a fish darted beneath the surface.

She sighed. “Do I seem like a monster to you?”

“No.”

“Even after everything?”

“I think you’ve been carrying too many secrets for too long. That doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you tired.”

She looked at him. “Do you tell that to all the girls who stumble into your arms drunk off their head?”

“No,” he said. “Only the ones who cry about clone commanders in their sleep.”

Her throat tightened. “Of course I did.”

“You said you love them both.”

She dropped her head into her hands. “Stars, I’m a mess.”

“That’s not news.”

They both laughed, but it faded quickly.

Kit’s voice turned more serious. “You trust the Chancellor. But you fear him.”

“I do,” she whispered. “More than anything.”

Before Kit could respond, another voice echoed softly from behind.

“You’re not the only one.”

She turned sharply to see Mace Windu standing a few steps away, arms crossed, his gaze steady but not unkind.

“Didn’t realize this was going to be a group therapy session,” she muttered.

Windu stepped forward. “Kit told me what you said last night. About your fear. Your confusion. Your… feelings for the clones.”

“Wonderful,” she muttered.

“I’m not here to scold you,” Windu said. “But I need to understand. Why do you keep aligning yourself with the Chancellor if you don’t trust him?”

“Because I don’t know what happens if I don’t,” she admitted. “He knows everything about me. He saved me once—or at least made me think he did. I’ve done things for him I can’t take back. And I’m scared if I stop playing the part, he’ll destroy me.”

Kit’s hand rested gently on her back. Windu’s expression softened—not pity, but something close.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Windu said. “We may not know what you are to him, but you’re not just his anymore. You’re part of something else now. The clones trust you. Some of the Jedi trust you. Don’t waste that.”

She met his eyes. “I don’t know how to be anything but what I’ve been.”

“Then start small,” Kit said. “Be honest.”

“That’s terrifying.”

“Most truths are.”

Windu gave a slight nod, then turned to leave.

Before he did, he added, “You’ve still got a choice. Don’t wait until it’s taken from you.”

She sat there for a while after he left, Kit still beside her.

“Truth hurts,” she murmured.

Kit gave a small smile. “So does love.”

⸻

She didn’t take the main lift. Didn’t want to run into anyone. After her talk with Kit and Windu, she was raw—peeling open layers she’d kept tightly shut for years. Now, every footstep echoed like a secret she hadn’t meant to tell.

She was halfway through the lower halls when a voice pulled her to a stop.

“You always run off when things get real?”

She froze.

Rex.

He stepped out of the shadows near the archway, arms crossed, helmet in hand, dressed down in fatigues. No armor. No rank. Just him. And that was the problem.

“I wasn’t running,” she said quietly.

“You never are,” he replied. “You disappear. You lie. You kiss me, then you kiss Cody, then you run again and act like none of it ever happened.”

She turned toward him, lips parted in protest—but he wasn’t done.

“I don’t care about what happened at 79’s,” he said. “Not like that. I care that I don’t know where I stand with you. And I don’t think you know either.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No. What’s not fair is you looking at me like you want to stay, then leaving before I can ask you to.”

She looked away. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I know,” Rex said, stepping closer. “But you’ve got it. All of it. You have me. And Cody. And the damn Jedi Council watching your every move. And that kid you saved, even if he’s gone now. You’ve got hearts in your hands, and you’re squeezing them like you don’t realize they’re breakable.”

She flinched.

“You don’t get to keep pushing us away and pulling us close when it suits you,” he added, softer this time. “Pick something. Anyone. Or don’t. Just stop pretending it doesn’t mean something.”

The silence settled between them, heavy and sharp.

“I’m trying,” she finally whispered. “I’m not used to being wanted. Not like this. I don’t know what to do with it.”

Rex stepped closer. Close enough she could feel the heat from him, the frustration in the way he held his jaw so tight.

“Start by not lying,” he said. “To me. To Cody. To yourself.”

She met his eyes. “If I tell you I’m scared of what happens if I choose one of you…?”

“I’d say you’re human.”

“What if I choose wrong?”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you already know who it is,” he said, and for once, he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t push. Just looked at her like he was waiting for her to catch up.

She blinked, her mouth opening to speak—but footsteps echoed behind them.

Cody.

He stepped into the corridor, freezing at the sight of them. His eyes flicked between them, jaw tightening just a fraction.

Rex didn’t move.

Neither did she.

“You two done?” Cody asked coolly.

“Not even close,” Rex said.

Cody’s gaze locked with hers. “Then maybe it’s time I had a turn.”

The hallway felt too small for the weight in the air.

She looked between them—Rex, steady and wounded, and Cody, cold and unreadable, his arms crossed like a shield.

Cody broke the silence first.

“So,” he said, voice low. “What’s your excuse this time?”

“Cody—” she started.

“No, really. I want to know. You ran off, again. Lied to the Jedi Council. Lied to us. And you show back up at 79’s like nothing happened.” His tone was calm, but there was something brittle underneath. “So what is it this time?”

She exhaled, stepping forward. “I didn’t know what else to do. I had to protect that kid. And if I told anyone—even you—it would’ve put him in more danger.”

“You think I wouldn’t have protected him?” Cody asked, hurt flashing behind his eyes. “You think we wouldn’t have helped you?”

“I couldn’t risk it.”

“You didn’t trust us.”

“I didn’t trust anyone.”

That landed heavier than she expected.

Rex shifted, jaw clenched. “She didn’t even answer my comms, Cody. Not once.”

“I know.”

The silence swelled again—until she took a step closer to both of them.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were small, but real. Fragile, like they might shatter if she tried to backtrack.

Cody’s posture eased, just slightly. “We’re not looking for perfect,” he said quietly. “We’re just tired of being temporary.”

Her heart cracked open—again.

And then—

“Well isn’t this cozy.”

Quinlan Vos strolled around the corner like he was walking into a lounge instead of an emotional standoff.

“Oh great,” Cody muttered under his breath.

Right behind Quinlan came Kenobi, hands folded in front of him like he hadn’t just walked in on the messiest love triangle in the Temple.

“I sensed tension,” Kenobi said lightly. “But I wasn’t expecting it to be this personal.”

“Obi-Wan,” she said with a groan, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This really isn’t your kind of conversation.”

“And yet here I am,” he replied smoothly.

Quinlan leaned against the wall, eyes dancing with mischief. “So who’s it gonna be? Helmet One or Helmet Two?”

Rex looked like he was about to start throwing punches.

Cody sighed. “I will actually kill you, Vos.”

Vos raised his hands. “Hey, no need for violence. Unless it’s a duel for affection. In which case, I’ve got credits on the shiny one.”

“I swear to the stars—” she started.

Kenobi held up a hand, stepping between them. “Enough. We’re not here for… whatever this is. The Council requested an update on the three of you. We came to ensure you’re not tearing each other apart.”

Quinlan smirked. “Looks like she’s doing the emotional tearing, Obi.”

“Quinlan.”

“Alright, alright,” Vos said, grinning as he backed away. “But if someone gets stabbed over this? I better be invited.”

“Out,” she said, pointing. “Both of you.”

Kenobi gave a soft chuckle and turned to leave, but not before glancing over his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, tone more serious now, “sometimes the hardest thing isn’t choosing between two people—it’s choosing yourself. Just don’t take too long. Wars don’t wait for hearts to decide.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, dragging Quinlan along with him like an annoying older brother babysitting a younger one hopped up on spice.

The hallway fell quiet again.

Cody looked at her.

Rex didn’t move.

She let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know how to choose.”

“You don’t have to right now,” Cody said, stepping closer. “But stop pretending we don’t matter to you.”

“You do,” she whispered. “You both do.”

Rex finally spoke. “Then stop running.”

⸻

The air in her apartment was too still.

It felt wrong, being somewhere safe. Somewhere silent. Somewhere without the constant hum of danger or the weight of another lie slung over her shoulders like armor.

She sat on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, the lights dimmed.

A glass of something strong sat untouched on the nearby table.

Her thoughts weren’t on Rex. Or Cody. Not really. Not even on the awkward, lingering heat of Kit Fisto’s presence that still clung to the corners of her memory like steam on glass.

They kept drifting—to the kid.

To the boy with the too-serious eyes and the hands that fidgeted when he thought she wasn’t looking. Who had followed her across half the galaxy, trusting her with a kind of blind faith she didn’t think she deserved.

To the one she couldn’t kill.

To the one she’d almost raised.

She could still hear his voice, the way he’d called her “boss” like it was a title and a joke all in one. The way he looked when they’d watched the suns set over Kashyyyk, his feet dangling off a root bridge too high for a child to be comfortable on.

“Why do people kill people like me?” he’d asked once.

She didn’t answer then.

She didn’t have an answer now.

She rubbed her temples, feeling the weight of every choice she’d made—every body she’d stepped over, every path she’d walked blindly, every whispered promise to herself that she could control this, steer it, fix it.

And now the boy was back in Republic custody.

Safer, maybe.

But she didn’t believe that—not really.

Palpatine had plans again. She could feel it. The shadows were curling inward, and she knew enough to know his approval was just another kind of leash.

Maybe Windu was right to be wary.

Maybe Kit was a fool for softening.

Maybe she’d always been a weapon. Just one that had gone a little bit rogue.

She stood up, slowly. Restless.

The floor was cold under her feet.

She wandered to the window. Coruscant glowed like a promise she never believed in.

And still… her hand went to her chest, fingers brushing the chain she wore. The one the boy had made her. Twisted wire and beads and a piece of scrap metal etched with a crude smiley face.

He’d given it to her after their first week on the farm.

“For luck,” he’d said.

She should have thrown it away. Burned it.

But she never did.

And as the lights of the city blinked in rhythm with her quiet regret, she found herself whispering into the night.

“I hope they’re being kind to you, kid.”

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him… or to the ghosts that never stopped following her.

⸻

The transmission came through at dawn. She hadn’t slept.

Palpatine’s voice was calm, syrupy sweet as always. “There’s a matter requiring your unique talents,” he said. “You’ll rendezvous with General Skywalker and his battalion. Details will follow.”

No time to think. No time to refuse.

So she didn’t.

⸻

The hangar was already buzzing when she arrived, helmet under her arm, armor pieced together hastily, mismatched from past missions. The 501st was preparing for deployment, their blue-striped armor shining like blades in the rising sun.

She caught Rex’s gaze across the room. He looked tired. He always did lately.

Anakin stood with a datapad, barking orders. Ahsoka stood near him, arms crossed, lekku twitching with unease the moment the reader approached.

“You’re late,” Skywalker said without looking up.

“I’m here,” she replied coolly.

“Then suit up and get ready. We leave in ten.”

She moved to prep her gear, but Ahsoka intercepted her with a tone too casual to be friendly. “Still working for the Chancellor, huh?”

The reader didn’t answer, just gave her a sideways glance and kept walking.

“I mean,” Ahsoka continued, following, “after everything that’s happened—you being gone, the Jedi Council questioning your motives, Palpatine conveniently keeping you around while trusting no one else. Doesn’t any of that seem off to you?”

The reader paused, slowly turning toward her. Her voice was quiet, but heavy. “You think I don’t ask myself the same questions?”

“Then maybe it’s time you stop pretending you’re above all of this,” Ahsoka snapped. “You play all sides. You lie. You vanish. And now you’re back like nothing happened.”

The reader took a step forward, gaze locked on the younger woman. “You think I want this? You think this is a game to me? You were raised in this war. Trained for it. You have people who believe in you, a name that means something. I was bought. I was used. You want to give me a reality check, kid? I live in it.”

Ahsoka blinked, momentarily stunned.

“You’re lucky,” the reader added. “You still think there’s a clean side to stand on.”

With that, she brushed past Ahsoka and made her way toward the LAAT gunship.

Rex was already inside, waiting.

She sat across from him, eyes closed, palms resting on her knees as if trying to keep her heart from falling out of her chest.

“You alright?” he asked after a while.

“No,” she said honestly.

He nodded like that answer made perfect sense. Like he wasn’t alright either.

The gunship lifted. The world blurred outside.

Another mission. Another role to play.

But this time, the pawn wasn’t so willing. And she was starting to learn how to bite.

⸻

The LAAT rocked hard as it breached atmosphere, the roar of wind and engines loud enough to drown out thoughts, fears—names she couldn’t stop saying in her head. Cody. Rex. The kid.

But beside her, General Skywalker sat unfazed, legs spread, arms braced loosely on his knees, like he was born for turbulence. He glanced at her mid-bounce and smirked.

“Bet you missed this,” he said, loud enough to be heard over the rumble.

She scoffed, tucking a few loose strands of hair under her helmet. “Missed being shot at? Only thing I miss more is spice mines and low-rent bounty gigs.”

Anakin grinned. “See? I knew you were fun.”

And to her own surprise… she laughed.

He didn’t ask where she’d been, didn’t pry about the Chancellor, didn’t even hint at what everyone else couldn’t shut up about. Just treated her like a soldier. Like a comrade.

When they hit the ground—dust choking the air, blaster fire already echoing in the distance—he took point without hesitation. She fell in beside him, blasters drawn, movements fluid, practiced. They didn’t need to speak to understand one another.

Flank, move, clear. He gave hand signals, and she followed instinctively. His saber lit up the smoke like a beacon, cutting through battle droids as easily as breath.

They moved through a warzone like ghosts—an unlikely but effective pair. She covered his blind spots, he powered through hers. The 501st swept behind them like a blue tide, and for the first time in months, she felt something almost like useful again.

At the edge of the battlefield, they ducked behind a crumbling wall to regroup.

Anakin exhaled. “You know, I get it,” he said suddenly.

She looked at him, brow furrowed under her helmet.

“Running. Hiding. Playing a part so big you forget who you actually are underneath it.”

A long pause. She stared out over the smoke-covered field, unsure of how to respond.

“You ever think about leaving it all behind?” he asked. “Just… disappearing?”

She glanced over at him, lips twitching. “I did disappear.”

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. But not the way you wanted to.”

She didn’t respond, but the truth of it burned behind her ribs.

A voice came crackling through comms—Rex, coordinating the rear line. The reader’s pulse skipped without reason. She forced herself to focus.

“Let’s go,” Anakin said, pushing up from cover and drawing his saber again. “Back to the chaos.”

She followed, silently grateful for the moment.

He hadn’t asked about Cody. Or Rex. Or the kid.

He hadn’t made her explain herself.

And for now, that made him the easiest person in the galaxy to be around.

⸻

The adrenaline was still thrumming in her blood as she pulled off her helmet and leaned against a sun-scorched wall. The air smelled like ash and ion discharge, and her armor was coated in dust and dried blood—not all of it hers.

She barely had a second to exhale before Ahsoka appeared like a shadow in the corner of her eye.

“You’re not going to disappear again, are you?” Ahsoka asked flatly.

The reader blinked, slow and tired. “Not planning on it.”

Ahsoka folded her arms, her lekku twitching ever so slightly. “I don’t get it. You show up, cause chaos—emotionally and otherwise—leave, then come back like nothing happened.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed, “but you owe someone one. Cody? Rex? The Council? The Chancellor? You burned every side of the board and expect to keep playing the game.”

The reader narrowed her eyes, pushing off the wall. “I don’t expect anything.”

“I can’t tell if you’re loyal or just really good at pretending.”

Before she could snap something cutting back, a calm voice intervened behind them.

“That’s enough, Snips.”

Anakin strode into view, hands on his belt, expression unreadable. Ahsoka glanced between the two of them, jaw tight, but ultimately nodded and walked off with a muttered, “Fine. But she’s not off the hook.”

Once she was gone, the reader exhaled through her nose. “She’s got a mean right hook. Bet she’s even worse when she’s got words.”

“She’s protective,” Anakin said with a shrug. “But she’s not wrong. Just… a little blunt.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the twilight settle in soft purples and oranges across the broken landscape. She looked over at him, surprised to see him still there, just… waiting.

“No lecture?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“No cryptic Jedi wisdom?”

“I’m fresh out,” he said with a smirk. “You want some unsolicited advice instead?”

She gave him a dry look. “Why not. Go for it.”

Anakin leaned against the same wall she had been using as support. “You’re a mess.”

“Thanks.”

“But so is everyone. That’s the secret no one talks about. We’re all running on fumes, bad decisions, and half-formed ideas of what we think is right.”

She let out a breath of a laugh. “And here I thought you Jedi were supposed to be the poster boy of moral certainty.”

He shrugged. “Not me. Never was.”

Silence again. This time, more comfortable.

“I liked fighting with you today,” she admitted, surprising herself more than him.

He smiled. “I like fighting with you too.”

She studied his profile. “You’re not like the others.”

“That’s probably both a compliment and an insult.”

“Take it however you want.”

They both chuckled softly.

“Thanks for not asking about the Chancellor. Or the others. Or—”

“You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to,” Anakin said simply. “Not with me.”

She looked down at her hands, cut up and shaking slightly. “I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“Then don’t say anything yet,” he said. “Just… be here. For once.”

Her chest ached at the simplicity of it. She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

And for a moment, just a moment, she was someone without secrets.

⸻

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