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Warnings: injury
The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.
“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”
You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”
Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”
“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.
“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”
“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.
Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”
“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”
You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.
Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”
“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.
Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.
“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”
“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.
“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.
Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.
Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”
“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”
“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.
You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”
⸻
Things went sideways by hour three.
The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.
The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.
You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.
“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.
You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.
Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”
“Define lucky,” you rasped.
“Alive.”
“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.
“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”
“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”
He blinked down at you. “What?”
“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”
You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.
“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.
“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”
Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.
“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”
Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.
“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”
“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.
He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.
“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”
“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”
“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”
Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”
⸻
You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.
The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.
“You stayed,” you rasped.
He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”
“And…?”
His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:
“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”
You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.
“Oh yeah. Every word.”
Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.
“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”
You definitely were.
⸻
You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.
“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”
Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”
“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”
“It was the blood loss talking.”
Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”
“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”
They both burst out laughing.
“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”
Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”
You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”
You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.
“I did.”
Silence.
Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”
“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”
Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”
“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”
Ahsoka howled with laughter.
Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.
“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.
You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”
⸻
Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.
“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”
Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”
“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”
Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”
Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”
“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.
Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”
“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”
Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”
“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.
Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”
Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.
“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.
Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”
Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”
Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.
Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”
Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”
Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”
Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”
Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”
Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”
Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”
Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”
Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”
Jesse wheezed.
“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”
Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”
Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”
They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.
Then, quietly, under his breath:
“…War angel in plastoid?”
He smiled. Just a little.
Warnings: death, mentions of death
⸻
You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.
Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.
The battle was over.
But it didn’t feel over.
You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.
“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.
You turned—and froze.
It was him.
Waxer.
Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.
But you didn’t look at Boil.
Your eyes went to Waxer.
And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.
“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”
“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.
Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”
You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.
Tears burned your eyes.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.
“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”
Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”
Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.
“I was brave,” she said proudly.
You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”
Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”
“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”
You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.
“She drew me?” you asked softly.
Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”
Your heart cracked in half.
“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”
⸻
They stayed.
Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.
Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.
“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”
You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.
“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.
He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”
“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”
He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”
You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.
“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”
Waxer swallowed.
“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”
“But you did.”
He didn’t answer.
You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”
His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”
You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.
Waxer sat very, very still.
Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”
“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The next morning, they were set to leave.
Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.
Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”
He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”
You reached up, cupped his cheek.
“Promise me something,” you said.
He nodded.
“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”
His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”
You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”
He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.
“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.
You let him go.
But your heart didn’t
⸻
The war kept him away—but never silent.
Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.
He always reached out.
“Hey, starshine.”
It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.
You saved every one of his transmissions.
He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.
Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:
“I miss you.”
You always whispered it back.
⸻
Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.
He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.
“Got something to show you,” he said.
He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.
It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.
“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”
“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”
“Boil let you do this?”
“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”
You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.
He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”
“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”
“Soon.”
⸻
But soon never came.
⸻
Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.
He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.
You stood there. Frozen. Staring.
Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.
“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”
Boil shook his head.
“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”
You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”
“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”
He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.
You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.
Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.
“Did he forget?” she whispered.
You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”
Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”
You didn’t respond.
The helmet said enough.
⸻
You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.
Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:
“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”
But the silence said it all.
Pabu, post-series finale.
⸻
Pabu was alive in a way Crosshair didn’t trust.
It didn’t hum with ships overhead. It didn’t reek of oil and war. It didn’t echo with the weight of command or the thrum of tension beneath every breath. It just… was.
Seagulls circled the docks at dawn, squawking like idiots. Kids yelled, feet slapping on sandstone. The trees rustled in an offbeat rhythm that never stopped, and the air always smelled of sea salt, grilled fish, and ripe fruit fermenting in the heat.
He hated it.
Except he didn’t.
⸻
The people here didn’t stare at his missing hand. They didn’t ask if he’d lost it saving someone or killing someone. They just noticed, nodded, and shifted baskets or tools so he could carry them with his off hand.
He still hadn’t told them his name.
You were the first person to say it out loud.
“You don’t look like a Crosshair,” you said, half-laughing, barefoot on the edge of a weatherworn dock. “You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to care what anyone thinks, but secretly cares a lot.”
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You talk too much.”
“And you sulk too much.”
That got a smirk out of him.
⸻
Your home sat along the middle tier of Pabu, tucked between wild flowering vines and one of the best views of the ocean. You’d lived there your whole life—grew up learning tide patterns, storm warnings, how to fish with traps and nets and patience.
You never once said “thank you for your service” or asked what Crosshair had done in the war.
You just asked if he wanted to help you set crab traps or throw stones into the water.
Sometimes, when the wind died down, you sat beside him on the cliff paths and told him stories. Not important ones. Just the kind that reminded him the world was still turning. That people still existed without orders.
One night, after a heavy rain, you gave him a glass bottle.
It had been washed up on the beach—inside, a note: “If you’re reading this, you’re alive. And that’s enough.”
“Found it when I was sixteen,” you said. “Kept it. Never opened it until this year. Figured I’d give it to someone who needed it more.”
He held it in his one hand for a long moment. The glass was warm from your touch. The note inside felt… real.
“…Thanks.”
You smiled. “Was that hard?”
“Extremely.”
⸻
He hadn’t gotten a prosthetic yet. Couldn’t bring himself to.
The scarred stump still ached when the air pressure shifted. Sometimes he looked at it and imagined the rifle he used to hold. The precise balance of metal and bone. The impossible stillness.
Now, he shook from time to time. Not from pain. From stillness.
He didn’t tell you that.
But you saw it anyway.
“Everyone here’s missing something,” you said, gently, one night beneath the low firelight. “Some people just hide it better.”
He didn’t answer.
So you leaned your shoulder against his.
Just… stayed there.
No pressure. No performance.
He stayed too.
⸻
It wasn’t until days later—when he instinctively caught your elbow as you slipped on a mossy stone, one arm wrapped around you to steady your fall—that something cracked open.
You looked up at him, breathless and close.
“You always this chivalrous?” you asked.
“No,” he said. “Just with you.”
And for once, he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The knock came softly. Not the kind meant to wake someone—just a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. As if whoever stood behind your door wasn’t sure they should be there.
You were already awake.
Pabu was quiet at night—so quiet, sometimes it felt like the island held its breath while the sea whispered to the cliffs. You liked that silence. Usually. But not tonight.
Tonight, something in you itched.
You opened the door barefoot, hair tangled from tossing in bed, lantern in hand.
And there he was.
Crosshair.
Bare-chested in loose sleep pants and boots, as if he’d thrown on the first things he could grab. No weapon. No cloak. No sharpness in his eyes—just shadows.
You blinked, taken off guard. “Crosshair?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at you, either.
He was staring past your shoulder, jaw tight, that missing hand hanging stiff at his side like he forgot it wasn’t still whole.
You lowered the lantern a little. Let the soft light reach him without pressing too close. “You okay?”
Silence.
You could hear his breath—too fast, like he’d been running or trying not to.
He shifted. Like he was about to speak.
Instead, he shook his head.
And still didn’t leave.
So, you stepped back. Just one step. Just enough.
“…Come in.”
He hovered in your doorway for a second longer. A soldier waiting for permission.
Then finally—finally—he moved.
The door closed with a soft click, and the weight of him filled your small space like a storm.
He didn’t sit. Didn’t talk.
Just stood there, arms at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
You crossed the room, pulled a blanket from the couch, and held it out—not with pity. With choice.
“Take it or leave it.”
His eyes flicked to you then.
A flicker of something… human. Something wounded.
He took it.
You sat on the floor by the open window, letting the sea breeze move through the warm room, and waited. Not for a story. Just for him.
Eventually, he joined you. Knees drawn up, the blanket over his shoulders, that haunted look still tucked behind every line of his face.
“I had a dream,” he said. Voice low. Raw.
You didn’t interrupt.
“They left me,” he added. “I was… screaming. And no one turned around.”
You watched his hand. The one hand. Clenching.
“I couldn’t even hold my rifle. Couldn’t fight back. I just stood there. Worthless.”
“That wasn’t real,” you said gently.
His jaw flexed. “Felt real.”
You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes the past grabs you like that. Won’t let go until you rip it out by the roots.”
He looked at you. Noticed the way you weren’t looking at him—but near him. Close enough he could speak. Far enough he didn’t feel cornered.
“…Why’d I come here?”
You tilted your head toward him.
“Because you didn’t want to be alone.”
Silence again.
Then softer—softer than you thought he could manage—he said, “You make it easier. Breathing.”
You smiled, small and true.
“Then stay.”
And he did.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t sleep.
Just sat beside you while the tide rolled in, and the lantern flickered low, and—for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself rest.
Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.
Just a man.
Bruised. Tired. Still here.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to survive it alone.
⸻
The scent of eggs and something burning pulled you gently from sleep.
You blinked against the golden light spilling through your window, warmth already seeping into the room. Birds chirped somewhere up in the palms. The sea whispered low and lazy outside.
And in your tiny kitchen—Crosshair.
He stood shirtless, the thin blanket you’d given him still draped over his shoulders, bunched awkwardly at the elbows as he tried to manage a small pan one-handed.
You sat up slowly, watching him fumble with the spatula in his off hand. Every motion was too stiff, too careful, like he was trying not to admit how difficult this actually was.
There was a tiny line between his brows. Concentration. Frustration.
A hiss of oil popped.
He flinched.
You slid off the bed quietly and crossed the room barefoot.
“…Need help?”
“No,” he said instantly—too fast.
You smiled, stepping closer anyway. “You sure? Because your eggs look like they’re losing a war.”
He didn’t glance over. “I’m adapting.”
Your voice was soft now, near his shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
He was. But you didn’t push.
Instead, you reached past him to turn the heat down a little. Let your fingers brush his wrist—not enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.
He didn’t pull away.
That felt like something.
You leaned in, your voice like the morning breeze, warm and teasing. “For the record… it smells better than it looks.”
He gave a low snort. “I’ll keep that in mind, chef.”
And that’s when you did it.
You stepped in close, reached up gently—and kissed his cheek.
Just a press of lips. Soft. Unrushed. Not asking anything from him.
He went completely still.
You could feel the tension in him coil tight—but not in fear. Not anger. Just something… undone.
You pulled back slowly, eyes searching his face. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “For being here.”
His gaze dropped to you. Quiet. Intense. Like he was trying to make sense of you.
“…Didn’t think I’d want to stay,” he admitted, voice hoarse.
“And now?”
Crosshair looked down at the half-burnt eggs. The soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Your hand still barely brushing his.
“…Still don’t.”
A pause.
“But I think I will.”
Warnings: slightly sexually suggestive
⸻
You swore he was doing it on purpose.
That whole “silent and brooding” thing he had going on? Weaponized. His voice, low and gravelly, the way he leaned against walls like they were built just for him, arms crossed and muscles on full display. He moved like he had time to kill and knew exactly how dangerous he looked doing it.
You were not immune. Maker, you were struggling.
It didn’t help that the Hunter Effect seemed to get worse during downtime. No blasterfire, no missions, just a hot planet, a half-broken fan in the corner of the Marauder, and him doing pull-ups in a sweat-soaked tank top like he was in some holodrama made for thirst traps.
You were trying not to stare. Failing miserably.
Hunter dropped from the bar with a soft thud and turned toward you like he’d felt the heat of your gaze. Probably had. Damn enhanced senses.
“You alright over there?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.
“Fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.
He raised a brow as he walked past, close enough to brush your shoulder with his—on purpose, probably. You bit your lip. Hard.
“Y’look a little flushed,” he said, and there was that grin. The knowing one. “Could be the heat. Could be something else.”
“Could be your ego,” you fired back, refusing to look up from your datapad.
He didn’t answer, but you could feel the smirk behind you.
Later that night, the heat stuck around—and so did he. The others were asleep or off doing their own thing, and you ended up side by side with Hunter near the edge of the ship’s loading ramp, sitting in the dark, stars overhead. You were close—closer than you usually allowed yourself to be.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just passed you a flask of something strong and let the silence settle.
Then—
“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, “but I figured I’d give you the chance to stop pretending.”
You turned to face him. He was already looking at you, intense and calm, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Pretending?” you asked, trying to play dumb.
He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re not subtle, mesh’la. And I’ve got good instincts.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because honestly… yeah. He was right. And you were caught.
Hunter shifted closer, gaze dropping to your lips just briefly—enough.
“I’ve been watching you too,” he added, voice low now, like a secret. “Listening to how your heartbeat changes when I get close. I like the way you look at me. Like you’re thinking about what it’d be like.”
Your throat went dry. “To do what?”
He smirked. “To ride.”
You choked on air.
“I meant a speeder,” he said, utterly deadpan.
You shoved his arm. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
You paused.
“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”
His smile dropped into something deeper, something real. His hand brushed yours, lingered.
“Then maybe it’s time we stop dancing around it.”
You looked at him—really looked. The man you fought beside, trusted with your life, laughed with, wanted like nothing else.
“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s ride.”
He leaned in, lips ghosting yours.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”
⸻
⸻
Blaster fire lit up the crumbling ruins like lightning in a dead storm. You ducked behind a scorched column, heart pounding, comms blaring with garbled voices. Another skirmish, another senseless conflict in a war that never stopped taking.
You weren’t a soldier, not really. Intelligence officer, field analyst—whatever title the Republic slapped on you, it didn’t change the fact that you ended up on the frontlines more often than not. Especially when you were assigned to the 501st.
Especially when he was there.
“Behind you!”
Fives’ voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. You dropped low just in time for him to fire over your head, taking down the droid that had been about to fry you. He slid into cover beside you, breathing hard, face streaked with soot and blood.
“Close one,” you muttered.
“You really know how to pick your spots,” he said, flashing that grin—the one that used to make your knees weak. Still did, if you were being honest.
You laughed, short and bitter. “This war’s got a habit of throwing us into hell together, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “It does.”
You looked at him then, really looked. Fives wasn’t just tired—he was worn, stretched thin by secrets, loss, and the weight of being more than just another number. He was alive, but barely hanging on. And you hated that the Republic didn’t see it. That they didn’t see him.
He caught your gaze, like he always did, reading you like a datapad.
“What?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Maybe in another life,” you said before you could stop yourself, “you and I would’ve had peace. Time. A place not drowning in war and death.”
His eyes darkened. “Maybe.”
You turned away, blinking fast. The next words came without permission. “I would’ve loved you, Fives. Fully. Properly. Without fear of losing you every time we touch ground.”
He was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Why not this life?”
Your breath caught. “Because this life isn’t made for love. Not for us.”
“It could be,” he said, voice raw. “If we fought for it. If we carved it out from the chaos.”
You looked at him, heart breaking. “You’d really risk everything?”
He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “I already have.”
And then the comms cracked to life. New orders. Pull out. Another planet to bleed for. Another reason to bury the moment.
You both stood, back to war. No promises. No declarations. Just a look that said maybe—maybe in another life. But neither of you could help hoping:
Why not this one?
There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."
You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.
"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."
You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."
Snickers echoed through the hall.
Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."
That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"
She shrugged. "Or hoping."
You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."
---
Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.
He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.
"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"
"You disappeared. Again."
You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."
He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."
Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.
"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."
He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.
"You weren't hurt?" he asked.
You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."
He nodded once and walked away.
*He cared.*
He'd never say it. But it was there.
---
Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.
Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."
You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."
"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."
You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."
---
That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.
And just like always... he was there.
Helmet off. Silent in the corner.
You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.
"Wait."
You turned. "Following me again?"
He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.
"I thought something happened," he said quietly.
You swallowed. "Fox—"
"Next time, just tell someone."
You blinked. "Why?"
A long pause.
"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."
And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.
You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.
Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.
Fox... made you feel seen.
And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.
Waiting.
---
The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.
Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.
"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"
Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."
"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."
And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.
Kess.
She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."
Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."
Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."
You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."
"She was joking," Kess said quickly.
"I was not," Trina snapped.
"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.
Kess audibly choked on her tea.
---
Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.
The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.
"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."
"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."
Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."
"I'll talk to her."
You blinked. "You will?"
"She's not your superior."
A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."
He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."
---
That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.
You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.
You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.
"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."
Aurra Sing.
Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."
You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."
"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."
"I'm not a bounty hunter."
She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."
Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.
"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."
She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.
You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.
You weren't scared.
But you were very, very awake.
---
The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"
Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.
You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"
Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.
You gave him a half-smile.
He didn't return it.
But his hand twitched near his blaster.
He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.
You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.
---
Summary: Your a friend of Jango Fett’s, he had asked you to come to Kamino to help train clone cadets, more specifically the cadets who were pre selected as commanders. Pre-Clone Wars. Pretty much just a love triangle between my fav clones. Bit angsty towards the end.
⸻
You hadn’t even wanted the job.
Kamino was cold, clinical, and crawling with wide-eyed clones who couldn’t shoot straight or punch worth a damn. But Jango had asked. And when Jango Fett asked, you didn’t exactly say no.
So, you found yourself here, drowning in rain and the hollow clatter of trooper boots on durasteel, overseeing the elite cadets being fast-tracked to become clone commanders.
They weren’t commanders yet. Not officially. But the Kaminoans had flagged a few standouts early—Fox, Wolffe, Cody, Bly, Neyo, Gree—and they were yours now.
Jango called them assets.
You called them projects.
Most of them respected you. Some feared you. And then there were those two.
Fox and Wolffe.
Walking disasters. Brilliant tacticians. Fiercely loyal. And completely, irredeemably idiotic when it came to you.
They’d been vying for your attention since day one—squabbling, sparring, brawling—and you’d brushed it off. Flirting wasn’t new to you. You knew how to shut it down. But these two? These two were stubborn. And clever. And just reckless enough to keep you on your toes.
You stood now at the edge of one of the open training rings, arms folded, T-visor reflecting a dozen cadets going through various drills. Cody was holding his own in a two-on-one blaster sim. Bly was shouting orders like he thought he owned the place. Gree was crouched in the mud, recalibrating his training rifle mid-drill.
But your eyes were on Fox and Wolffe, again.
They were arguing by the supply crates, the tension between them so thick it might’ve passed as heat if Kamino weren’t freezing.
“I’m telling you,” Wolffe was growling, “she was talking to me yesterday.”
“Right,” Fox drawled. “She called you ‘uncoordinated and overconfident.’ Sounds like flirting to me.”
“You don’t get it, she’s Mandalorian. That’s basically a compliment.”
“Boys.” Your voice sliced through the rain like a vibroblade.
They both snapped to attention so fast they nearly knocked heads.
“Get in the ring.” You didn’t even raise your voice. “Now.”
Fox and Wolffe exchanged a look—equal parts dread and defiance.
“Yes, instructor,” they muttered.
“I want five laps if either of you so much as winks.”
You tossed a training staff toward Fox. He caught it clumsily and frowned. “What, no sim?”
“Nope. You’re with me.”
Somewhere behind you, you heard Bly mutter, “He’s dead.”
“Pay attention to your drill, cadet,” you barked.
Fox stepped into the ring with the same confidence he wore into every disaster. “Try not to go easy on me, yeah?”
You didn’t dignify that with a response.
The fight started fast. Fox was quick, smooth, used his weight well—but you’d trained on Sundari’s cliffs, in Death Watch gauntlets, and in the company of monsters who made even Jango look tame.
Fox didn’t stand a chance.
He lasted maybe three minutes before you dropped him with a shoulder feint and a sweep that sent him crashing into the mat.
“Dead,” you said flatly, planting your boot on his chest.
Fox groaned. “You always this brutal with your favorites?”
“You’re not my favorite.”
“Oof.”
Then—Wolffe shoved past the other cadets and stepped into the ring.
“That’s enough,” he said, voice tight. “He’s training, not being punished.”
You cocked your head. “You volunteering?”
“I’m not letting you flatten my brother without a fight.”
You smirked behind the visor. “Your funeral.”
What followed was nothing short of combat comedy.
Wolffe was sharper than Fox. Calculated. But he was still a cadet. You pushed him hard—Mando-style, merciless, unrelenting. Rain slicked the mat, thunder cracked outside, and your staff never slowed.
Wolffe held his own longer.
But he was still losing.
Then, desperate—he lunged.
And bit you.
Right on the bicep.
“Kriffing—”
You staggered back, jerking your arm away, teeth clenching as the pain bloomed under your armor.
“Did you just—did you bite me?!”
Wolffe, still crouched and panting, looked horrified. “You weren’t stopping!”
Fox, flat on his back, howled with laughter. “You feral loth-cat! What, was headbutting too civilized?”
You peeled your glove off and stared at the bite. “You drew blood,” you growled. “I liked this undersuit.”
“Instinct,” Wolffe muttered.
“Idiot,” you shot back.
By now, the other cadets had gathered around the ring, wide-eyed and whispering. You turned slowly to the group.
“Let this be a lesson. I don’t care if you’re a cadet, a commander, or kriffing Supreme Chancellor himself—if you bite me, I bite back.”
Fox wheezed. “She’s not joking. I’ve seen her take out two bounty hunters with a broken fork.”
You jabbed a finger at him. “Fifteen laps, Fox. For running your mouth.”
Fox dragged himself upright and groaned, limping toward the track.
Wolffe started to follow.
You grabbed his pauldron.
“Don’t ever use your teeth in a fight again, unless you’re actually dying.”
“Yes, instructor.”
“…And next time, if you are gonna bite, aim higher.”
He blinked.
And you walked off, bleeding, storming, and already plotting their next humiliation.
Commanders?
Kriff.
They were barely house-trained.
⸻
The morning after the Bite Incident started like most—grey skies, howling wind, and Kaminoan side-eyes.
You strode onto the training deck in full gear, fresh bandage wrapped over the healing bite mark on your arm. The clones were already lined up, posture rigid, eyes straight. You could feel the tension radiating from the group like a bad smell. No doubt they’d all heard the rumors.
One of them bit you. And lived.
You stopped in front of them, hands behind your back. “Which of you thought it was smart to bet on me losing?”
Half the group tensed. Cody coughed.
You didn’t wait for an answer. “Double rations go to the one who bet I’d win and that one of you idiots would end up chewing on my armor.”
That got a chuckle—nervous, brief—but it broke the tension. Good. You weren’t here to baby them. You were here to make them legends.
“Group drills today. Partner up.”
Predictably, Fox beelined for your side. “So. How’s the arm?” he asked, lips twitching.
You turned slightly, giving him just enough of a smirk. “Tender. Wanna kiss it better?”
Fox visibly froze. For the first time in all the months you’d trained him, he blinked like a man who’d just taken a thermal detonator to the soul.
Wolffe, watching from across the training floor, snapped his training blade in half.
Like, literally snapped it.
You didn’t even react.
Cody whistled low. “He’s gonna kill someone.”
“Hope it’s not me,” Fox muttered under his breath, heart rate visibly climbing.
You raised your voice. “Wolffe. Grab a new blade and meet me in the ring. Fox, go help Gree with his stance. The last time I saw someone hold a blaster like that, they were five and trying to eat it.”
Fox, now flustered beyond recognition, stumbled off. Wolffe stalked over, eyes dark.
“You flirting with him now?” he asked, low and sharp, as you passed him a fresh blade.
You leaned in—just close enough for your voice to dip like smoke. “He flirted first.”
“And you flirted back.”
You tilted your head. “You gonna bite me again if I do it twice?”
Wolffe looked like he might combust.
The spar started aggressive—Wolffe striking fast, sharp, his technique tighter than usual, anger giving him extra momentum. You blocked him easily, letting him wear himself out. Letting him stew.
“Jealousy looks good on you,” you taunted, hooking his leg mid-swing and sweeping him to the mat with a sharp twist.
He landed with a grunt, breathless. You knelt beside him, blade tip pressed to his chestplate.
“I flirt with the one who keeps his teeth to himself,” you said, tone casual. “Consider that motivation.”
Wolffe didn’t answer. He just stared at you, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear it grinding through the floor.
By the time drills ended, Fox was glowing. Wolffe was feral. And you?
You were thriving.
Let them fight over you. Let them stew, and sulk, and throw punches at each other behind the mess hall.
This was war training. They’d better get used to losing battles.
Especially the ones with their own hearts.
⸻
You were late.
Not tactically late. Intentionally late.
The cadets were already lined up, soaked to the bone from outdoor drills—Kamino’s rain coming in sideways like daggers. You made your entrance like a storm, dripping wet and smirking like you hadn’t made half the room lose sleep last night.
Fox was waiting at the front, eyes locked on you. He didn’t salute. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked—calm, steady, sharp.
And you felt it. That shift.
Wolffe was off to the side, glaring holes into the back of Fox’s head. You caught it all in a sweep of your gaze.
“Who wants a live-spar match to start the morning?” you called.
Several cadets groaned. Cody actually muttered something about defecting to Kaminoan administration.
But Fox? Fox stepped forward. “I do.”
You tilted your head. “Sure you want that smoke, pretty boy?”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You think I didn’t train for this?”
You narrowed your eyes, intrigued.
The match was brutal. Not because Fox was stronger—but because Fox was different. Controlled. Confident. Calculated. He didn’t let your taunts shake him. He dodged quicker, pushed harder. When he caught your leg and sent you crashing to the mat, the cadets gasped.
Even Wolffe made a strangled noise like a dying animal.
You coughed, winded, pinned under Fox’s knee, his hand resting against your collarbone.
“Yield?” he asked.
You blinked up at him. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Already did,” he said, low enough for only you to hear. “You like it.”
You shoved him off you with a grin, rolling to your feet.
“Not bad,” you admitted. “But I’m still prettier.”
Fox actually laughed.
Wolffe walked off the mat.
Straight to the armory.
Because of course he did.
Later, when the others had cleared out and you were wiping sweat from your brow, you felt that familiar weight behind you—boots heavier than a clone’s, presence impossible to ignore.
“Jango,” you greeted, not turning.
“You’re playing with them.”
You wiped your blade clean. “I’m training them.”
“You’re toying with them,” he said, voice flat. “They’re assets. Not toys. Not lovers. Not soldiers you can break for fun.”
You turned, arching a brow. “I know the difference between a weapon and a man, Fett.”
He stepped closer. “Then stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”
That one hit—low and sharp.
You swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. “They’re soldiers, Jango. If a little heartbreak cracks them, the war will kill them faster.”
“They need guidance. Not confusion.”
“And what about me?” you asked, arms crossing. “What do I need?”
His eyes didn’t soften. “You need to choose. Or leave them both alone.”
You didn’t answer.
He left you with the silence.
That night, you found Fox alone in the mess, bruised, hungry, and tired.
“You did good today,” you said quietly.
He didn’t look up from his tray. “So did you. Playing with me until Wolffe snapped?”
“Wolffe snapped because he thinks I’m yours.”
Fox looked up now, slow and dangerous. “Are you?”
You leaned in. Close. Almost touching. “I could be.”
Fox’s jaw clenched. “Then stop making him think he has a chance.”
You didn’t reply.
Not right away.
And that pause? That breath of hesitation?
That was the crack in everything.
⸻
You stopped showing up to the mess.
You didn’t call on Fox or Wolffe for sparring. You rotated them into group drills only. You stopped lingering after hours. No more teasing remarks. No more slow smirks and heat behind your eyes.
No more touch.
It was easier, at first. For you.
They were cadets. Not yours. Not meant to be anything more.
Jango’s voice echoed every time you started to second-guess yourself.
“Stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”
So you holstered your weapon. Locked the fire down. Played it straight.
And watched them start to unravel.
Fox was the first to try and confront you.
He caught you in the hallway outside the training rooms. Quiet, calm, alone.
“You ignoring me on purpose?” he asked, voice low.
You didn’t stop walking. “You’re a soldier. I’m your instructor. That’s all.”
Fox stepped in front of you, blocking your path.
“So that was all it ever was? The fights? The flirting? Me on top of you on the mat?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, despite his best efforts.
You looked at him, jaw tight. “Fox—”
He laughed. Bitter. “No. Say it. Say it meant nothing.”
You couldn’t.
And that was the problem.
“It’s better this way,” you said instead, and slipped past him.
He let you go.
That was what broke your heart most of all.
Wolffe was worse. He didn’t say anything—at first.
He trained harder. Fought rougher. Every drill was a warzone now. He snapped at Cody. Nearly dislocated Gree’s shoulder. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Until one night—
You caught him in the dark on the training deck, punching into a bag like it owed him his life.
“Wolffe.”
He didn’t stop.
“I said, stand down—”
He spun on you.
“Why?” he snapped. “So you can ignore me again?”
You froze.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he growled. “You pulled away from both of us. Playing professional like you weren’t the one making Fox look like a damn lovesick cadet. Like you weren’t the one making me feel like I was yours.”
Your chest tightened. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Yes, it was!” he shouted. “And now you think pulling back fixes it? You think it makes the want go away?”
You opened your mouth to reply, but Wolffe stepped forward, eyes burning.
“Let me make it real easy for you,” he said. “If you didn’t mean any of it—tell me you never wanted me. Say it.”
You couldn’t.
You didn’t.
You just turned and walked away.
Again.
And behind you, in the dead silence of the deck, you heard something break.
⸻
They started showing off.
It wasn’t even subtle.
Fox perfected his bladework, spinning twin vibroknives in a blur, always training just where you could see. Wolffe started calling out cadets for slacking mid-drill, standing straighter, yelling louder, fighting longer.
Every time you passed, there was tension—tight like a wire, straining.
And you kept pushing.
Harder, faster drills. No breaks. No leniency. You called them out in front of the others when they slipped. You sent them against each other in spar after spar, knowing they’d go all out.
They did.
Until Fox went down hard—breathing ragged, cut bleeding at his brow, fingers trembling.
And you snapped: “Get up. Again.”
He looked at you. Not angry. Not sad. Just tired.
Wolffe stepped between you before Fox could even move.
“No.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said no,” Wolffe growled. “He’s bleeding. He’s exhausted. He’s not a toy you wind up just to see how far he’ll go.”
“This is training—”
“This is punishment,” Fox cut in, standing up slow behind Wolffe. “And we’re done letting you use us to beat your own feelings into the ground.”
The silence that followed hit harder than a punch.
You looked at both of them—Wolffe, tense and furious, jaw clenched; Fox, bleeding but still looking at you like he cared.
“You think this is about feelings?” you spat. “I’m preparing you for war. You’re not ready.”
“We were,” Wolffe said quietly. “Until you made yourself the battle.”
That hit you straight in the ribs.
You stared at them, breathing hard, adrenaline high, rage burning under your skin—and then you turned away.
“Training’s over,” you muttered.
Neither of them moved.
When you left the room, they didn’t follow.
And for the first time since setting foot on Kamino, you realized what losing both of them might actually feel like.
⸻
The sky on Kamino never changed.
Just endless grey. Rain like a drumbeat. A constant hum of sterile light and controlled air.
You stood at the edge of the landing platform, your gear packed, your armor slung over your shoulder like it didn’t weigh a hundred kilos in your gut.
“I thought you were done bounty hunting,” Jango said behind you.
You didn’t turn.
“I thought I was too.”
He walked up beside you, slow and even. No judgment in his stride. No comfort either.
“They got to you,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
“They’re good soldiers. You saw that. You made them better. You drilled discipline into their bones.” A pause. “So why run?”
You clenched your jaw.
“Because I stopped seeing them as soldiers,” you muttered. “I started seeing them as—”
You broke off. Not because you didn’t know the word. But because it hurt too much to say it.
Jango sighed. “I told you not to toy with the assets.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You flirted. You made them think—”
“I didn’t make them think anything,” you snapped, turning to him finally. “I felt something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now it’s bleeding into training and—” your voice cracked. “They’re getting hurt.”
Jango looked at you for a long, quiet second.
Then, almost gently: “You never had the stomach for clean lines. You’re too human for that.”
You laughed bitterly. “Maybe. But I won’t be the reason they break.”
Jango gave you a nod. Subtle. Approval, maybe. Or just understanding. He turned to leave, boots echoing on the wet metal.
“Where will you go?” he asked over his shoulder.
You looked back out at the grey sea. Thought of neon lights. Cold bounties. Silence without faces you cared about.
“Somewhere I don’t have to see their eyes.”
Jango didn’t say goodbye.
He never did.
And when your ship lifted off, you didn’t look back.
⸻
The cadets lined up in silence.
There was tension in the air. They could feel it—like a shift in pressure right before a storm hits.
Wolffe had a sick feeling crawling up his spine. Fox had barely spoken all morning.
You hadn’t shown up for dawn drills. Again.
Then the door opened.
Boots. Not yours.
Jango Fett strode in—full beskar, helmet tucked under his arm, scowl like a thunderhead.
Every cadet stiffened.
“Form up,” he barked.
The lines straightened immediately. But all eyes were looking past him—waiting.
Wolffe’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Where’s our instructor?”
Jango’s lip curled slightly. “Gone.”
Fox frowned. “Gone where?”
Jango stared them down.
“She left Kamino. She won’t be returning.”
Just like that.
Silence exploded across the room.
Wolffe’s fists clenched.
Fox’s mouth opened—then closed. His jaw locked.
“She didn’t say goodbye,” Neyo whispered.
Jango looked at them like they were stupid.
“She didn’t need to.”
No one breathed.
Then Jango paced in front of them, slow and deliberate.
“You were here to be trained to lead men in battle. Not to fall for someone who made you feel special. You don’t get attachments. You don’t get comfort. You get orders. Understand?”
No one answered.
Jango stepped closer to Wolffe, then Fox, his voice low and cold.
“She gave you the best of her and got out before you ruined it. Don’t make the mistake of chasing ghosts.”
And with that—he barked for drills to begin.
They ran until their lungs burned, until every cadet dropped to their knees from exhaustion. Jango didn’t ease up once.
Wolffe didn’t speak the entire time.
Fox trained like he wanted the pain.
And no matter how hard they hit, how fast they moved, how sharp they became—
You didn’t come back.
⸻
The job was supposed to be clean.
A simple retrieval on Xeron V—a mid-tier Republic contractor gone rogue, hiding in the crumbling husk of an old droid factory. Get in, grab the target, drag him to a shadowy contact with credits to burn and questionable allegiance.
But you should’ve known better.
The second you got your hands on him, everything went sideways. Someone tipped off the Republic. Gunships rained from the sky. Your target fled. You got cut off. Cornered.
And then the unmistakable howl of clone comms filled the air.
The 104th.
You almost laughed when you saw the markings—gray trim, wolf symbols, bold and sharp.
Fate had a sick sense of humor.
You were disarmed in seconds, pinned to the floor with your cheek pressed against cold durasteel.
Even then, you didn’t fight.
Wolffe was the one who yanked off your helmet.
You expected a reaction.
All you got was silence.
Not even a curse. Not even your name.
Just a stiff order to “secure the bounty hunter” and a curt nod to the troopers flanking you.
And then he walked away.
Like you were nothing.
Now you sat in the Republic outpost’s holding cell, bruised but mostly fine—aside from your ego and whatever parts of your heart still hadn’t gone numb. The armor plating of your new life, as a notorious bounty hunter, felt thinner by the second.
He hadn’t even looked you in the eye since they dragged you off the ship.
Not when you spat blood onto the hangar floor.
Not when they clamped the cuffs on your wrists.
Not when your helmet rolled to his feet like some ghost from a forgotten life.
Just protocol. Just silence.
Just Wolffe.
Outside the cell, Master Plo Koon approached his commander, his quiet presence always felt before it was seen.
“She knew your name,” Plo said gently.
Wolffe’s armor flexed as his fists curled. “She trained us. All of us. Before the war.”
“But there is more, isn’t there?”
Wolffe glanced sideways. “Sir, with respect—”
“I am not scolding you, Wolffe.” Plo’s voice remained steady. “But I sense a storm in you. I have since the moment she arrived.”
Wolffe said nothing.
“She left something behind, didn’t she?”
And for just a second, Wolffe’s mask cracked.
“Yeah,” he said, jaw tight. “Us.”
⸻
The hum of the gunship in hyperspace filled the silence between you.
You were cuffed to a seat, armor stripped down to a flight-safe bodysuit. Your posture was relaxed, but your gaze never left the clone across from you.
Wolffe sat still—helmet in his lap, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken since takeoff.
“You gonna give me the silent treatment the whole way?” you asked, voice dry.
He didn’t even blink.
You sighed and leaned back, jaw clenching. “Fine. I’ll do the talking.”
No response.
“I didn’t think they’d make you my escort,” you continued. “You’d think after our history, that might be considered a conflict of interest.”
“Maybe they thought I’d shoot you if you acted up,” he muttered.
You smirked. “I thought about acting up. Just to see if you still care.”
That got him.
His head snapped toward you, eyes burning. “Don’t.”
“What? Push your buttons?” You arched a brow. “That used to be my specialty.”
“You used to be someone else.”
The smile dropped from your lips.
So did your heart.
Wolffe looked away again, tightening his grip on the helmet in his hands.
You turned your head toward the window, hiding the sting behind sarcasm. “You look good in Commander stripes.”
“And you look good in chains.”
There it was again—that damn tension. Sharp and unresolved. You almost welcomed the sting.
Almost.
⸻
Coruscant.
The gunship touched down in the GAR security hangar. Sterile, bright, swarming with guards in crimson-red armor.
You knew who ran this show before you even stepped off the ramp.
Fox.
The last time you saw him, he was still a smart-ass cadet fighting over who could land a blow on you first.
Now?
He wore the rank of Marshal Commander like a second skin. Polished. Cold. Untouchable.
The second your boots hit the durasteel, he was there.
“Prisoner in my custody,” he said to Wolffe, not even sparing you a glance.
“She’s your problem now,” Wolffe replied, handing over the datapad.
You smirked. “Nice armor, Foxy. Didn’t think you’d climb so high.”
He didn’t even blink.
“No jokes. No names. You’re not special anymore.”
The smile dropped off your face like a blade.
“I see the Senate really squeezed all the fun out of you.”
Fox stepped in close, nose-to-nose. “That bounty you botched? Republic senator’s aide was caught in the crossfire. He’s still in critical care.”
Your mouth opened, but he kept going.
“You may think you’re the same snarky Mandalorian who used to throw cadets around on Kamino. But you’re not. You’re a liability with a kill count—and you’re lucky we didn’t shoot you on sight.”
You swallowed hard.
Wolffe stood off to the side, helmet tucked under one arm, watching. Quiet. Controlled.
But his gaze never left your face.
Fox turned to his men. “Take her to holding. I’ll debrief in an hour.”
You were grabbed by the arms again, dragged off without ceremony. As you passed Wolffe, your eyes met just for a second.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything.
But Wolffe looked away first.
And this time, it hurt worse than anything else ever had.
The room was cold. Not physically—just sterile. Void of anything human.
One table. Two chairs. Transparent durasteel wall behind you.
And Fox, across the table, red armor like a warning light that never shut off.
He hadn’t said a word yet.
Just stood in the doorway, datapad in hand, watching you like he was trying to decide whether to question you or put a bolt in your head.
Finally, he sat down.
“You’re in a lot of trouble.”
You leaned back in the chair, manacled wrists resting against the tabletop. “Let me guess. That senator’s aide I accidentally shot was someone’s nephew?”
Fox didn’t flinch. “You’re lucky he’s not dead.”
“I’m lucky all the time.”
He stared you down. “Tell me why you took the job.”
You rolled your eyes. “Credits.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the truth.”
His fingers tapped against the datapad. A slow, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the silence.
“Target was mid-level intel—why would someone like you take a low-rank job like that?”
“I don’t screen my clients. I don’t ask questions.”
He leaned forward slightly. “You used to.”
You stilled.
There it was. The first crack.
“Back on Kamino,” he added, voice quieter. “You asked questions. You gave a damn.”
You looked away. “That was a long time ago.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Then help me understand what changed.”
You laughed once, bitter. “Why, Fox? This isn’t an interrogation. This is you trying to pick apart what’s left of someone you used to know.”
“No,” he said, too quickly. “This is me trying to figure out whether the person I used to trust is still in there.”
Your gaze snapped to his.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t break.
But you saw it.
That same flicker he used to show you, late in training when he couldn’t hide how much he hung on every word you said. That look when he fought with Wolffe over who got to spar with you first. That silence after you left Kamino without saying goodbye.
“I trained you to be a good soldier,” you muttered. “Not to sit behind a desk and spit Senate lines.”
“I became a good soldier because of you,” he shot back. “But you left before you could see it.”
Silence settled again.
He dropped the datapad to the table and leaned back in his chair. “Do you even care who you’re working for these days?”
You smirked, tired. “You want me to say I regret it. But I don’t think you’d believe me if I did.”
Fox stood abruptly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
He moved to leave—then hesitated, fingers flexing at his side. He looked back once, gaze sharp and unreadable.
“We’re not done.”
You lifted your brow. “Didn’t think we were.”
He stared at you another heartbeat longer.
Then left.
The door hissed closed behind him.
And still, his questions lingered.
⸻
It was past midnight, but Coruscant never slept.
The holding cell lights were dim, humming faintly above your head. You sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on your knees, staring through the thick transparisteel wall like you could still see stars.
Your wrists ached from the manacles.
Your chest ached from everything else.
When the door hissed open, you didn’t look.
You already knew who it was.
He stepped inside, slow and careful—like maybe if he moved too quickly, he’d change his mind and leave.
“Didn’t expect to see you again,” you said quietly.
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Figured.”
You turned your head. Wolffe was still in full armor, helmet off, but the tension in his shoulders was more than battlefield wear.
He stepped closer but didn’t sit. He just looked at you. Like he hadn’t had the chance to really see you until now.
“You really left,” he said.
You huffed a breath. “You mean Kamino?”
He nodded once.
“Jango warned me,” you said. “Told me not to mess with the assets.”
His jaw clenched. “You weren’t messing with us.”
“Weren’t I?”
Wolffe looked down, quiet for a moment. Then:
“We would’ve followed you anywhere.”
The silence between you cracked open—raw, vulnerable.
“I couldn’t stay,” you whispered. “Not after that. Not when I knew I was screwing with your heads. You and Fox were fighting over a ghost. I was your first crush, not your future.”
“You were more than that.”
“No,” you said gently. “I was just the one who got away.”
Wolffe looked like he wanted to argue. Wanted to reach out. But he stayed exactly where he was, arms stiff at his sides.
“You’re going to be court-martialed,” you said with a dry smile. “Visiting the prisoner. Real scandal.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You always did. That’s what made you a good soldier.”
He didn’t reply to that. Just let the silence stretch.
Finally, you asked, “So what happens now?”
Wolffe’s eyes hardened—not cold, but braced. “You’re staying. Senate wants answers. GAR wants a scapegoat.”
“And you?”
“I want—”
He stopped himself.
You sat up straighter. “Say it.”
He exhaled, jaw flexing, voice low. “I want you to walk out of here. I want you on my squad, back where you belong. I want to forget you ever left.”
You didn’t look away.
“I want to stop wondering if we ever meant anything to you.”
You stepped toward the barrier between you.
Then the comm in his vambrace flared to life.
“—Commander Wolffe, this is General Koon. We’re wheels up in five. Rendezvous at Pad D-17.”
He didn’t answer it. Just looked at you.
“I guess that’s your cue,” you said, trying to smile. “Duty first.”
“Always.”
But this time, he didn’t move.
He just stared at you like maybe—just maybe—he’d stay.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said. “I made my bed. I’ll lie in it.”
He nodded slowly. “You always did sleep like hell anyway.”
You laughed once. It hurt.
“I’ll see you again,” he said finally.
“You sure about that?”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
Another call came through. Urgent.
He stepped back, slow, deliberate, like every footfall cost him.
You stood alone behind the transparisteel wall.
And he left without another word.
Because he was a commander.
And you were the one who got away.
Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.
⸻
You’d found the distress signal by accident.
A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
But you weren’t most people.
And the frequency?
It was clone code.
You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.
Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.
And then you heard him.
At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.
“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”
Static.
“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”
More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.
“I don’t wanna die like this…”
Your heart stopped.
You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.
“Rex!”
Then you heard it.
Closer now.
“Please…somebody…I—”
His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.
And finally—you found him.
Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.
His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.
“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”
Your heart shattered.
You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”
His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”
You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”
Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.
“Hurts…”
“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”
You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.
He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.
But now?
Now he was just a man.
Bleeding. Scared. Alone.
You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.
“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”
You closed your eyes.
“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”
⸻
He woke up in pieces.
A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.
And your voice.
He could hear you before he could turn his head.
“I know you’re awake, Rex.”
He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.
“How long?”
“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”
He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”
You closed your book. “Of course I did.”
He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”
There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.
You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.
Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.
But he wasn’t now.
He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.
“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.
You said nothing. Let him go on.
“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”
You reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”
“You’re not.”
He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”
He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”
You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.
“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”
You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.
“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.
His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”
You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.
He was shaking.
It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.
You wrapped your arm around him.
He didn’t say anything after that.
He didn’t need to.
⸻
Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:
“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”
And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.
He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.
Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.
The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.
But Sev?
He didn’t disappear.
He stood out.
He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”
You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.
“Rough night?” you asked.
Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”
Then he downed it and left.
That was six months ago.
Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.
Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.
But Sev?
He watched you.
Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.
Tonight, it was just him.
Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.
Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.
“Was it bad?” you asked.
He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”
You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”
He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”
You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”
That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”
“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”
He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.
Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”
You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”
His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.
“I was made to kill,” he muttered.
“But that’s not all you are.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”
You didn’t move.
Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”
Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.
You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.
“You scare me,” you admitted.
He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”
“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”
Silence.
Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.
“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”
You met his eyes.
“Because even rats deserve to be free.”
He didn’t kiss you.
He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.
Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.
⸻
The cantina flickered with low, golden light. One of those places where time didn’t move right—where music played like a memory, and everyone spoke a little softer after dark.
You sat on the edge of a cracked booth, legs stretched, nursing a cheap drink you weren’t really drinking. Your armor was off, your hair a mess, and there was still grime on your hands from the skirmish earlier that day. You should’ve been back at the ship, cleaning up or passing out. But you weren’t.
Because he was still here.
Hunter leaned against the bar, arms crossed, talking quietly to the bartender. His bandana was off for once, letting those wild curls fall free around his face. He looked tired—always did—but he still stood like he carried the weight of everyone else’s safety before his own. That kind of burden was its own kind of beauty.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he turned and caught you.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Eventually, he walked over. Sat across from you without asking, sliding into the cracked booth like it had always been meant for two.
“You okay?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Still got all my limbs.”
He smirked. “That’s a start.”
You studied him under the flickering cantina lights. He was always so composed in battle, so sharp, so focused. But like this, up close and quiet, there was something softer behind his eyes. Something a little tired. A little lonely.
“You’re always looking after everyone else,” you said suddenly, voice low. “Who looks after you?”
Hunter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He looked down, then back at you with a small, dry laugh. “You know… I don’t really think about it.”
“You should.”
You reached out and brushed a thumb across his knuckles—just once, just enough.
He didn’t flinch.
“You’re good looking when you’re not pretending to be indestructible,” you murmured. The words slipped out like a secret.
Hunter tilted his head, smile crooked, eyes watching you like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming or if he just hadn’t let himself want this before.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said.
You held his gaze. “A little. But I’d say it sober.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice low and gravelly. “Then say it again.”
You felt your breath hitch, just a little.
“You’re good looking, Hunter,” you said. “But I think I like you even more when you let yourself feel.”
A beat passed. Two. He looked down at your hand, still near his. Then he reached for it—gently, carefully, like something fragile in a war-torn world.
“I think I feel too much when I’m around you,” he said. “And that scares me more than battle ever could.”
You didn’t answer. Just let the silence sit between you—heavy, intimate, real.
The music kept playing. The world outside kept spinning. But for now, it was just the two of you, sitting across from each other like the war had paused. Like the night belonged to people who’d been scarred, and tired, and still dared to want something more.
Warnings: inner conflict, Dark Side temptation, brief mentions of violence and war. Inspired by the song “meet me in the woods” by Lord Huron
⸻
The war had changed you.
You could feel it in the way your saber moved—too fast, too forceful. You felt it in your voice, now lower, sharper when giving orders. And you felt it in the way the Force wrapped around you lately—not like a comforting current, but a rising tide, dark and deep.
You hadn’t meditated in days.
You didn’t want to.
Instead, you wandered into the woods after the battle, far from the bodies, the smoldering tanks, and the smothering weight of Republic victory. The trees here were ancient and gnarled, the canopy so thick that the light barely broke through. It felt like walking into another world—one that didn’t know your name, or your rank, or your failures.
And still, somehow, he found you.
“You’re not supposed to be out here alone,” Cody said behind you, voice low, familiar. His helmet was under one arm, the other hand resting casually on the DC-17 at his hip. He looked like he always did—composed, focused, but you knew the worry in his eyes.
You didn’t turn around. “A lot of things I’m not supposed to be.”
Silence stretched between you like mist in the trees.
“I felt you slipping,” he said quietly. “Even before this last mission. I thought… maybe if I gave you space…”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t need space. I need the war to stop.”
He stepped closer. You heard the soft crunch of damp leaves under his boots. “It won’t. Not for a long time.”
“I know,” you whispered. “And that’s the problem.”
You turned to face him finally. His eyes locked on yours. You saw how tired he was, how long the war had weighed on him, too. But Cody was a soldier—he didn’t break. You weren’t sure if that was strength or something else entirely.
“I killed someone today,” you said. “Someone who tried to surrender. I didn’t even hesitate. It felt… right. Like the Force wanted it.”
His brows furrowed. “The Force doesn’t want blood.”
“Then what is it that’s whispering to me? Making me feel stronger every time I give in?”
Cody didn’t answer immediately. He just closed the distance, slow and steady, until you could feel the heat of him, grounding you.
“I don’t know much about the Force,” he said. “But I know you. And I know you’re not lost. Not yet.”
You shook your head. “You’re wrong. I’ve seen what’s inside me. There’s something dark. Something hungry.”
His hand touched your arm—gently, like you were something fragile and wild. “Then let me walk with you into it. Into the woods. Into whatever this is. You don’t have to face it alone.”
You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.
“You’re not afraid?” you asked.
“I’m afraid of losing you,” he said simply.
Something inside you cracked—just a little. Enough to let in the light. You leaned your forehead against his chest, and for a long moment, he held you there, arms steady around your shoulders, as if he could keep the darkness at bay just by holding on tight enough.
The woods were still around you. The war was far behind—for now.
And maybe, just maybe, if you kept walking, you’d find a way out of the forest together.
⸻
Summary: Pre-Attack of the Clones leading up to the first battle of Geonosis. inspired by “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin as I feel this song is very Jango and Boba coded.
______
Rain never stopped on Kamino.
It drummed a rhythm on the windows of the training facility—sharp, persistent, lonely. You stood by the glass, arms crossed, eyes scanning the endless gray. Somewhere outside. Another bounty. Another absence. Another silent goodbye.
“Back soon,” he always said, planting a kiss against your temple with a touch too light to anchor anything real. You used to argue—beg him to stay, to train, to raise the boy he brought into the world. But you learned quick: Jango Fett was a man of war, not of roots.
He was strapping on his vambraces when he noticed you watching him.
“Don’t start,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was gruff, frayed from too many missions and too little sleep.
You didn’t move. “He asked if you were coming to training tomorrow. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Jango paused, only for a second, before clicking the final strap into place. “Tell him the truth. I’m working.”
You stepped forward. “You could take one day off. Just one. He looks up to you—he waits for you. When you’re not here, he starts acting like you. Staring out windows, keeping things inside. Like father, like son.”
His jaw twitched. “I didn’t bring him here for you to turn into his mother.”
The words hit like a slug round.
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not trying to replace anyone, Jango. But you leave him here alone. What do you expect me to do? Pretend I don’t care?”
He finally looked at you. Those eyes, dark and calculating, softened only for seconds at a time. This wasn’t one of them.
“I expect you to train the clones. That’s the job. Not to start playing house.”
“I didn’t fall in love with you for the job,” you said, quieter now. “And I didn’t stay on Kamino because I like watching kids grow up as soldiers. I stayed for you. For him.”
Jango adjusted the strap on his blaster. “He’s not yours.”
“I know.”
You did know. You weren’t trying to be his mother. Not really. You just wanted him to have one—someone who remembered to ask if he’d eaten, who noticed when he had nightmares, who held him when he tried not to cry. Someone who didn’t just see a legacy in him.
Jango stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, too soft for someone always on edge. It almost made you forget everything else.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“You always say that,” you whispered.
But he was already turning away.
Slave I rose through the Kamino rain and vanished into cloud cover.
You didn’t cry. You just went back inside and checked Boba’s room. He was asleep, curled up with one of his father’s old gloves tucked under his pillow like a security blanket.
You didn’t belong in their family. You knew that. But in Jango’s absence, you became something Boba needed. A voice when silence was heavy. A shield when pain crept too close. Not a mother—but a presence.
Even if Jango never wanted you to be.
So you stayed behind. For Boba.
He was quiet, sharp, and already wearing boots two sizes too big—trying to fill his father’s shoes before he even hit puberty. You weren’t his mother, not by blood, not by name, but someone had to care enough to keep him human. To make sure he didn’t disappear behind armor and legacy.
You cooked for him. Taught him hand-to-hand when Jango was gone. Helped him with clone drills, even when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m not like them.” You tried to make him laugh. He rarely did.
One night, while putting away gear, he asked, “You gonna leave too?”
You paused. “No, Boba. Not unless I have to.”
“Dad says people always leave. That it’s part of the job.”
You crouched beside him, met his eyes. “He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s just scared to stay.”
⸻
Geonosis burned red.
Jango’s signal cut out too fast. Too sudden. You heard Mace Windu’s name in the comms, and something inside you fractured. Still, you led your squad—your clones—into the fight. They needed you. They trusted you. Jango didn’t.
When the battle ended, smoke still rising from the arena, you ran to the landing zone—knew exactly where the Slave I would be.
And there he was.
Boba, small and shaking, helmet too big in his arms. He looked up, eyes glassy but sharp.
“You’re with them,” he hissed, his voice more venom than grief. “You helped them.”
You stepped forward. “I didn’t know he’d—Boba, please. This isn’t what I wanted.”
“You’re a traitor.”
He turned, walking toward the ship, the ramp already lowering.
“You can’t do this alone,” you warned. “The galaxy isn’t kind. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I’ve got his armor. His ship. That’s all I need. I don’t need you anymore”
You reached for him—but he was already walking up the ramp, shoulders square like his father’s, jaw clenched with fury too big for his body.
You didn’t follow.
⸻
Years passed.
The Empire rose. You faded into shadows. The clones you once trained died in unfamiliar systems, stripped of names and purpose. You lived quiet, took jobs on the fringe—nothing that put you on anyone’s radar.
Until you crossed paths again.
Carbon scoring lit the walls of an abandoned outpost. A bounty had gone sour. You moved through smoke with the ease of memory—blaster in hand, breath steady. And then he stepped into view.
The armor was repainted, darker, scarred, refined. The stance, identical. The voice, modulated but unmistakable.
“You always did show up where you weren’t wanted,” Boba said.
You stared. He was taller now, broader. His face—Jango’s face, down to the line of his brow.
“I didn’t know it was you,” you murmured.
“Wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”
You lowered your weapon first. “You’re good.”
He gave a single nod. “Learned from the best.”
A beat.
“You look just like him,” you said quietly.
“Yeah. No surprise there”
There was no warmth in his words. Just steel. Just the ghost of a boy you tried to protect.
“Was that what you wanted? To become him?”
Boba stared at you for a long time. Then: “I didn’t have a choice. He left me everything… and nothing.”
You stepped closer, heart tight. “I tried, Boba. I tried to give you more than that.”
“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
He walked past you. Didn’t look back.
As he disappeared into the dusk, all you could think of is how he turned out just like him. His boy was just like him.
Summary: Wolffe x Medic!Reader set post-Order 66 during the Rebels era. Listened to the song “somewhere only we know” by Keane and made me think of old man Wolffe.
⸻
The sky of Seelos burned orange as another sun dipped beneath the jagged horizon. The Ghost had landed hours ago, stirring the sand, dust, and old ghosts from their resting places.
You stood at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, scanning the ramshackle AT-TE turned-home ahead. Your breath caught when you saw him—helmet under one arm, same eye scar, same heavy gait. But time had added weight to his shoulders and silver to his hair.
Wolffe.
He hadn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he had and just didn’t believe it. You smiled.
“Well, kark me,” you called, stepping forward, “either I’m dreaming or the years have not been kind to you, old man.”
He froze mid-step. His one eye widened, flickering with something too raw to be masked. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.
“Medic?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Still calling me that after all this time? Not even a ‘hey, great to see you, thought you were dead’?”
He dropped his helmet, closing the distance in long, heavy steps. You didn’t realize you were trembling until he reached you—until his gloved hand gently took your arm like he wasn’t sure if you’d disappear.
“You left,” he said. Not accusing. Just fact.
“So did you,” you whispered. “War ended. Republic died. So many of us died with it.”
A moment passed where neither of you breathed. The wind whistled over cracked metal and dry earth. The sun dipped a little lower.
Wolffe’s eye searched your face like it had answers to questions he never dared to ask. “Why now?” he said. “Why here?”
You glanced back toward the Ghost, where Sabine and Zeb were offloading supplies, Hera and Kanan deep in discussion. “I’m with them now. The Ghost crew. Ezra brought us out here. Said there were… good men worth finding.”
Wolffe looked away. “Not sure that’s true anymore.”
You touched his cheek—scarred, weathered, familiar. “Still wearing your guilt like a second set of armor, huh?”
“Maybe.”
“I remember when you used to smile,” you murmured. “Used to fight like hell, patch your brothers up, then sit with me under stars on Ryloth like the war wasn’t chewing us to pieces.”
His silence was heavy, but he didn’t pull away. Just watched you with that quiet intensity he always had.
“I’ve thought about you,” you said. “Over the years. Wondered if you made it. Wondered if you found peace somewhere.”
“This is the closest I got,” he said, glancing back at the AT-TE. “It’s not much.”
“It’s something,” you offered. “Somewhere only we know.”
A tired smirk tugged at his lips. “Still quoting that old song you used to hum in the medbay?”
You shrugged. “Catchy. And depressing. Fit the vibe.”
He chuckled—actually chuckled. It was a rare sound, worn and dry but still alive. “You really haven’t changed.”
You leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “You have. More lines. More grump. Less hair.”
“I shaved it.”
“Sure, sure. That’s what they all say.”
He shook his head, muttering a fond “damn smartass” under his breath.
The sun was nearly gone now, and the stars began to appear, faint and blinking like the ghosts of all you’d lost.
You stepped closer, chest brushing his armor. “You think we could find that peace again?” you asked, soft. “Maybe not like before, but… something close?”
He didn’t answer right away. But his hand found yours—calloused, warm, grounding.
“Stay a while,” he said. “Just… stay.”
You squeezed his hand.
“For now,” you said. “I’ll stay.”
And under a Seelos sky, two remnants of a broken galaxy found the smallest sliver of something whole. A memory made real. A place only you two remembered.
Somewhere only you knew.
⸻
It was another night at 79’s, the bar where the clones and the occasional visitor came to unwind after a long day of battle. The flickering lights cast shadows on the grungy walls, but the lively chatter, laughter, and clinking of glasses created a comforting hum in the background. You leaned against the bar, swirling your drink, eyes scanning the room when your gaze landed on a familiar face.
Commander Wolffe, as always, had a commanding presence even when he was off-duty, but tonight he was uncharacteristically relaxed. His armor was discarded in favor of the usual clone-issue tank top and fatigues, his black-and-grey hair tousled in a way that made him look rugged, even more so than usual. You’d bumped into him here plenty of times, always with the same playful banter and flirtatious remarks that made you look forward to your time at 79’s.
Tonight, however, something was different. You weren’t alone.
A new face—a clone commander you didn’t recognize—was sitting at a nearby table, chatting you up with ease. His dark hair was shaved close, a subtle scar above his eyebrow, and his grin was disarming, though his overconfidence was starting to wear on your patience. You were just humoring him for the moment, enjoying the banter and not entirely bothered by the attention. After all, it was 79’s, and a little flirtation never hurt anyone.
It was harmless enough, or at least you thought so, until you noticed Wolffe watching the exchange from a distance.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been flirted with by clones here, but you could sense Wolffe’s usual relaxed demeanor had shifted. The intensity in his eyes was unmistakable as he made his way over to you, standing a little too close, his presence commanding the room.
You flashed him a smile, unfazed by the tension that had suddenly thickened between them. “What’s up, Wolffe? You seem a little tense tonight.”
“Everything alright here?” Wolffe’s tone was sharp, his eyes flicking to Cody, who was now giving him a questioning look. He then turned his gaze back to you, his expression softening for a moment before he added, “Is this guy bothering you?”
You raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin pulling at your lips. “No,” you teased, “we’re just having a drink.”
Wolffe’s jaw tightened as he turned to Cody, who hadn’t broken his cool demeanor. “Well, he’s bothering me,” Wolffe said, and before anyone could react, he delivered a quick, sharp punch to Cody’s jaw.
Cody staggered slightly, more out of surprise than anything, his usual calm expression barely cracking. He recovered quickly, though, smirking as he rubbed his shoulder. “Well, that’s one way to say hello, Wolffe,” Cody said, voice tinged with amusement.
“Just a friendly reminder,” Wolffe grumbled
The room fell silent for a brief moment before laughter erupted from the nearby tables, the other clones eyeing the two commanders like they were about to see something more entertaining than a training session. The bartender, however, wasn’t as amused.
“You three! Out!” The bartender called, waving a hand at the trio of you, his patience running thin.
Wolffe flashed Cody a final look, an unspoken challenge in his eyes, before he gave a half-smile in your direction. “Guess we’re kicked out,” he muttered, already stepping toward the door.
Outside, the cool night air hit you, the chaos of the bar quickly fading behind you as you all stood on the street. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
“Well, that was interesting,” you said, grinning. “Couldn’t help myself, you know? It’s hard to resist a little harmless flirtation with handsome clones.”
Wolffe smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, though there was an unmistakable warmth in his eyes. “Next time, try not to get two clones in a punch-up over you.”
Cody, rubbing his jaw with a slight wince, chuckled. “I’ve had worse, Wolffe. But maybe you’ll want to keep that temper in check next time.”
You grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’ll have to think about it. I mean, you’re both so handsome. It’s hard not to get a little distracted.”
Wolffe shot Cody another look, then glanced at you with a half-smile. “Well, I suppose it’s good to know where I stand,” he said dryly. “But just remember, no one’s going to flirt with you as much as I do. So maybe I’ll keep punching my way to your heart.”
Cody snorted, shaking his head. “Brotherly rivalry at its finest, huh?”
You laughed, amused by the two of them. “Yeah, looks like it.” You gave Wolffe a playful look. “But I have to admit, I like the way you fight for my attention.”
Wolffe grinned, his usual cool demeanor returning. “Good,” he said, voice low and steady. “Because I’m not going to let anyone else take it.”
The three of you shared a brief, comfortable silence, and though the situation had been far from ordinary, there was a sense of camaraderie that you wouldn’t have traded for anything. And even though it had been an unexpected turn of events, you couldn’t help but enjoy the playful rivalry—especially when it involved such intriguing company.
“You two are something else,” you said, shaking your head, a smile tugging at your lips. “But it looks like I’m going to have to pick a side, huh?”
Wolffe gave you a smirk that told you everything you needed to know. “I’m already on your side,” he said, his voice full of quiet confidence.
Cody chuckled, stepping away with a wink. “Don’t think I’ll let you forget this, Wolffe.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Wolffe shot back with a grin. And with that, the three of you parted ways for the night, the bond of camaraderie—and the subtle, unspoken rivalry—lingering between you all.
The Senate was silent—eerily so. Your voice echoed as you stood center-stage, the holocams rolling, senators holding their breath.
You stared up at the massive screen where Palpatine’s hologram flickered with dispassionate cruelty.
“You may rule through fear, Emperor. You may bend systems, strip rights, and silence voices. But the power you believe you wield is nothing more than mere arrogance, left unchecked for far too long. And every tyrant who’s mistaken fear for loyalty has eventually learned the same truth: fear fades. Resistance doesn’t.”
Gasps rippled through the chamber. One senator spilled their drink. Another ducked behind their chair like you’d just tossed a thermal detonator.
The Emperor said nothing. Just smiled.
You finished your speech, spine straight as a durasteel blade. And when you left the chamber, you knew your days were numbered.
~~~~~~
Stormtroopers swarmed the upper districts now. Rumors had spread fast. A senator going rogue? Publicly? That kind of dissent couldn’t go unpunished.
So you went to the one person you hoped still remembered how to keep people off the radar: Cid.
She responded with a single message:
“You’re lucky I owe you. Got a crew incoming. Don’t get dead before they get there.”
~~~~~~
Blasterfire lit up the alley as a squad of troopers chased you through the lower levels. One shot narrowly missed your shoulder as you turned a corner, lungs burning. You weren’t trained for this. Your boots slipped on the slick metal flooring—and you stumbled, crashing against a wall.
A trooper raised his blaster, finger tightening on the trigger—
Then a blue bolt slammed into his helmet.
You blinked. He crumpled. And standing just behind him, face tight with focus and eyes locked on you, was Echo.
“Senator,” he said calmly, extending his arm, “Time to go.”
You grabbed his hand, letting him haul you up.
“Am I glad to see you,” you breathed.
“I know,” he said, smirking slightly. “You’re welcome.”
More troopers rounded the corner, and Echo pulled you behind cover, activating his comm.
“Now would be a great time, Hunter.”
“Exit’s two blocks south. Wrecker’s waiting with the ship. Move fast.”
“Copy that.” Echo glanced at you. “Can you run?”
“I’m a senator, not a senator’s aide,” you snapped, brushing off your robes. “I’ll manage.”
“Then keep up.”
~~~~~~
Wrecker was waving them in, Omega already at the ship’s edge, hair windblown and face alight with curiosity.
“Is that her?” she asked loudly. “The senator who told the Emperor off to his face?”
“Yep,” Tech said, not looking up from his datapad. “I analyzed her speech. Statistically, she’s either incredibly brave or terminally reckless.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive,” Echo muttered.
You darted up the ramp beside him, chest heaving.
Omega grinned. “You’ve got guts.”
You gave her a breathless smile. “And you’ve got a very large clone glaring at me. Should I be worried?”
Wrecker beamed. “That’s my welcome face!”
Hunter approached, giving you a once-over. “You’re lucky Echo was close. Another second and you’d be space dust.”
You turned to Echo, heartbeat still thundering. “You saved my life.”
“Let’s make a habit of not needing that,” he replied, voice softer now. “But… yeah. I did.”
The ship lifted, and you finally allowed yourself to sink into the bench beside him, the weight of your speech, your betrayal of the Empire, and the sudden turn your life had taken crashing down on you.
“You’re not safe anymore,” Echo said after a beat. “They’ll hunt you.”
You met his gaze. “Then I’m in the right company, aren’t I?”
He nodded, his hand resting lightly on yours for a moment longer than necessary.
From across the ship, Omega whispered loudly to Wrecker: “Told you they’d be into each other.”
Wrecker: “Do I owe you credits again?!”
~~~~~~
The Marauder rumbled to a halt just outside Cid’s bar. It still smelled like sweat, spilled ale, and wet carpet. You wrinkled your nose as you stepped off the ship, scanning the place like a senator inspecting a back-alley establishment—which, to be fair, was exactly what this was.
“You sure this is the right place?” you muttered to Echo under your breath.
“Unfortunately,” he replied, offering a small smirk. “Welcome to the galaxy’s finest example of poor life choices and questionable hygiene.”
Cid looked up from behind the bar, munching on what looked like a pickled frog. “You made it. And with all your limbs. That’s new.”
You gave her a tight nod. “We need to talk.”
She waved her stubby fingers toward her office. “Go on then. Let’s discuss what this little favor is gonna cost you.”
As you disappeared behind the door, the Batch headed for a corner booth.
Wrecker slid in first, already eyeing the snacks Cid had laid out. “So…” he said around a mouthful of something crunchy, “Echo’s got a thing for the senator.”
Echo’s head snapped toward him. “What?!”
Tech adjusted his goggles without even glancing up. “Your heartrate elevated approximately twelve percent every time she spoke to you. Statistically speaking, that suggests attraction. Possibly infatuation.”
“I do not have a thing,” Echo muttered, looking around like someone might hear—besides the four people very obviously hearing.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “You did dive in front of a blaster for her.”
“I would’ve done that for anyone.”
Wrecker grinned. “Yeah, but you didn’t look that heroic when you saved me last week.”
“That’s because you dropped an entire crate of detonators on your own foot.”
Omega slid into the seat beside Echo, kicking her legs casually. “She is really pretty.”
Echo stiffened. “Omega…”
“I saw the way you looked at her,” she said with that knowing look that made even Hunter flinch sometimes. “Like she was a sunset and you hadn’t seen one in a long time.”
Wrecker blinked. “Wow. That was poetic.”
Echo scrubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t—look, she’s a senator. I’m—”
“A clone with a heart,” Omega finished for him. “She saw it, too. The way she smiled at you? She likes you back.”
Echo opened his mouth, then shut it. Then sighed.
“I hate it when you do that.”
“I love it,” Omega chirped. “You should tell her.”
“I just saved her life. I’m not gonna flirt with her right after that.”
Hunter leaned back. “Might be the perfect time, actually. Emotions are high. Could work.”
Tech blinked. “Are we… encouraging romantic entanglements mid-fugitive status?”
Omega grinned. “Yes.”
Echo shook his head, cheeks tinged with color. “You’re all impossible.”
From behind them, the door to Cid’s office creaked open. You stepped out, looking just as poised and stubborn as you did in the Senate—but your eyes immediately found Echo’s across the cantina.
You offered a small, grateful smile. “Still alive, thanks to you.”
Echo stood, clearing his throat. “Anytime.”
Omega elbowed him hard as you approached.
“Ask her about sunsets!” she whispered.
As you made your way back to the booth, you caught the tail end of Omega’s whispering to Echo, her grin too wide and mischievous.
Your brow furrowed in confusion. “Sunsets?” you asked, stepping closer. “What about sunsets?”
Echo stiffened, clearly scrambling for an explanation. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth, only for Omega to literally jump into the conversation.
“Echo wanted to show you the sunset!” she blurted out, her eyes sparkling with that cheeky mischief only she could get away with. “He said they’re beautiful on the outer rim. He even said you might like them.”
Echo turned bright red, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment as his brain tried to catch up to Omega’s open confession. “I—wait, I—no… That’s not what I said—”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips at his obvious discomfort. “Sunsets, huh?” You cocked an eyebrow, leaning on the edge of the table. “That’s a pretty romantic gesture for a soldier.”
Echo quickly waved his hands, as though trying to physically push the words back into his mouth. “It’s not like that. I—I just—Omega, you—you…!”
Omega leaned back in her seat, arms folded with the smug satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what they’d just done. “You should definitely go watch a sunset with her,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s perfect. You’re both already really good at staring at the sky.”
You gave Echo a playful look. “Well, I don’t mind the idea of a sunset. It’s been a while since I’ve actually seen one.”
Echo exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the table, clearly overwhelmed by the situation. His usual calm and composed demeanor was nowhere to be found.
“I—uh—I—” He paused, his hand running over his short-cropped hair in frustration. “I mean… if you want to, I could show you one. I’ve got some good spots, but I really don’t—uh—expect you to—”
Wrecker, always the instigator, leaned forward from the opposite booth. “You wanted to show her a sunset, Echo. Sounds like a date to me.”
“Wrecker!” Echo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I’m not asking her out—!”
“Well, someone should,” Wrecker grinned. “It’s a good idea. A beautiful sunset and all that. You know, romantic-like.”
Omega crossed her arms and gave Echo an exaggerated side-eye. “You’re really bad at this.”
You watched the whole exchange with a lighthearted smile, clearly amused by how Echo was fidgeting like he was trying to dig his way out of a hole he’d accidentally fallen into. Finally, you leaned in, lowering your voice to something playful and teasing.
“If you’re really offering to show me a sunset, Echo, I’ll take you up on it,” you said, smirking as you watched his eyes widen in disbelief. “But I’m not making any promises about it being romantic.”
Echo blinked, clearly struggling to hide his relief. “Good. Yeah, good. I can do that. I mean—I can show you the sunset. That’s… normal, right?”
Omega gave him a thumbs up from across the table. “Normal! Totally normal.”
Hunter chuckled from the booth. “I don’t think it’s ever been normal with you, Echo.”
“I’m starting to realize that,” Echo muttered, shooting Omega a glare that barely had any heat behind it. “You’re lucky I like you, kid.”
“You’re welcome,” Omega chirped, her eyes glimmering with the kind of satisfaction only a matchmaker could feel.
~~~~~~~
You followed Echo out of the cantina and into the wilds of the Outer Rim, the two of you walking side by side in the fading light. It wasn’t a long journey, but Echo was unusually quiet, his usual confident stride now hesitant. You glanced over at him, trying to gauge whether he was just as nervous as he seemed.
“So,” you began, attempting to break the silence, “this sunset better be worth all the buildup.”
Echo glanced at you, his face turning slightly pink as he looked away quickly. “I mean, yeah, it’s a good spot,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s peaceful. Not a lot of people know about it.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you.
You smiled softly. “You must really like this place. It’s hard to believe a soldier like you would be into something so… serene.”
“Hey, even soldiers need some quiet,” Echo replied, his voice tinged with embarrassment. “I’ve seen enough battlefields to last a lifetime. This? This is… different.”
As you reached a ridge overlooking a vast expanse of orange and purple sky, you stopped. The sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows and bathing everything in golden light. The view was incredible. You couldn’t deny that Echo had chosen well.
“This… is beautiful,” you said quietly, letting the moment settle around you.
Echo stood a few feet away, glancing at the sky, but you could tell he wasn’t really focused on it. He fidgeted with his hands, his posture stiff, as though unsure of what to do with himself.
“Yeah. It is,” he said softly, though he didn’t seem to be looking at the sunset himself. His eyes kept darting back to you, and he swallowed hard.
A beat passed, then another, the two of you standing there in the stillness of the moment.
“So,” you began again, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, “Omega told me you’ve been staring at me like I’m the sunset or something. I’m starting to think she might’ve been onto something.”
Echo let out a strangled sound, something between a cough and a nervous laugh, and quickly turned away, his scomp fumbling with the edge of his armor. “I—look, I didn’t mean for her to—Omega… she has a way of—”
You laughed, your voice light and airy. “It’s fine, Echo. I’m just teasing.”
“Right,” he muttered, scratching his head. “You… you’re teasing. Yeah.”
The silence between you both grew, but now it was different—quieter, more relaxed, despite the awkward tension that had settled in. You couldn’t help but enjoy the strange warmth in the air.
Finally, Echo broke the quiet with a heavy sigh. “I’m really bad at this.”
“Bad at what?”
“At… this,” he gestured vaguely, not looking at you. “At not being awkward. You know, with people. I mean, I spent most of my life with clones, and—well, we didn’t exactly do sunsets.”
“Yeah, I imagine that would be difficult,” you said, your voice softer now. You could see how much this mattered to him, how much he was trying to make the moment right.
“You probably think I’m an idiot,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“No,” you said quickly, walking closer to him. “Not at all. You’re just… not used to doing this.”
Echo didn’t meet your eyes. “And I’m not great at… not being awkward around someone I think is way out of my league.”
That stopped you cold. You blinked, processing the words. “Out of your league?”
Echo shrugged, pulling at his sleeve nervously. “You’re a senator. You could have anyone you want. And I’m just—well, I’m just me. A soldier.”
You took a small step closer, closing the gap between the two of you. “Echo,” you said gently, your voice soft but firm. “I’m here because I want to be here. Because I trust you.”
His eyes flicked to yours, searching your face as though looking for any sign that you were just being kind. But what he found was sincerity. You meant it.
The sun dipped lower, the sky ablaze with colors, and Echo took a deep breath, finally meeting your gaze. “I’m really bad at this… but I’m glad you came anyway.”
You smiled and stepped forward, your hand brushing against his—just enough for him to notice. “Me too, Echo. Me too.”
You and Echo walked back in silence, though the tension between you was different now—softer, less painful. The cantina was as busy as before, the dim lights casting long shadows across the floor. The rest of the Batch was already there, and as soon as you and Echo entered, the teasing began.
Wrecker was the first to speak. “So,” he began with a huge grin, “how was the sunset?”
Echo shot him a glare. “I didn’t—we didn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wrecker laughed. “You two were just looking at the sky, right?”
You gave him a playful side-eye. “Why don’t you ask Omega? She’s the one who knows all about sunsets.”
Omega was sitting at the booth, her feet kicked up, looking entirely too smug for someone her age. “I told you it would be perfect,” she said, glancing at Echo with a knowing look.
Hunter raised an eyebrow. “So, Echo, what happened with the sunset? You get all the way out there just to not—”
Echo groaned and covered his face with his hand. “I’m not answering any of you.”
Tech, ever the neutral party, smiled faintly. “I believe this is the point where you’re supposed to express how much you enjoyed the company of your… companion.”
“Shut up, Tech,” Echo grumbled.
Omega leaned in, looking at you, then at Echo, her grin impossibly wide. “Did you kiss her, Echo?”
Echo nearly choked on his drink. “What? No! We—we—”
“I’m just saying,” Omega continued innocently, “there was some serious chemistry, and I don’t think you’ll be able to ignore it for much longer.”
“Omega,” Echo hissed, looking at her like she’d just dropped a thermal detonator at his feet.
But you just laughed, the tension from earlier melting away. “She’s not wrong, Echo. You’re pretty easy to read.”
Echo could only groan in response, his face as red as the setting sun.
A/N
I kinda hate this tbh, but I had an idea but then I had like a million other ideas while writing this and I feel like it’s kinda mix matched.
⸻
The soft beep of monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic filled the dimly lit medbay. Most of the beds were empty tonight—except for one, where Hardcase was half-sitting, half-lurking like a bored animal ready to bolt.
You entered with a tablet in hand, already sighing. “If I find you trying to ‘stretch your legs’ one more time, I swear I’ll sedate you.”
Hardcase gave you an innocent grin, all teeth and mischief. “Come on, doc, I was just doing a lap. For circulation. You wouldn’t want my muscles to atrophy, would you?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Hardcase, you have three broken ribs and a hairline fracture in your leg. Sit. Down.”
He threw his hands up in mock surrender and flopped back dramatically onto the cot, letting out an exaggerated groan. “You wound me more than the blaster bolt did.”
“You’re lucky I was there to drag your sorry shebs off the field,” you muttered, scrolling through his vitals. “Next time, maybe don’t charge a tank on foot.”
“I had a plan.”
“You yelled ‘I’ve got this!’ and ran straight at it.”
“…Exactly.”
You looked up, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are. Checking on me. Again.” He tilted his head, gaze softening. “You always come back, don’t you?”
That gave you pause. The playful tone slipped, just for a second. “That’s the job.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But not everyone does it like you.”
Silence settled between you, not heavy—but charged. Tense in a different way.
You set the tablet down and approached the side of his bed. “You’re a good soldier, Hardcase. But you don’t have to be the loudest in the room to matter. You don’t have to hide behind all that energy.”
He looked at you, blinking. “You see that?”
“I patch up your bones. I hear what your heart’s doing, too.”
He let out a slow breath, the grin slipping into something smaller, more genuine. “You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
You leaned in, crossing your arms. “And you’re kind of an idiot.”
Suddenly, his arm shot out—gently—and pulled you forward by your wrist, just enough that you stumbled and caught yourself on the edge of his bed.
“If you wanted me in your bed, cyare,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “you could’ve just asked.”
You glared down at him, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a curse. “You’re lucky you’re injured, clone.”
He smirked. “What happens when I’m not?”
Your hand lingered on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm beneath it. “Guess we’ll find out.”
His grin faded into something warmer. “I hope we do.”
⸻
⸻
Pabu Festival Night
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light over the sea as the village of Pabu came alive with lanterns, laughter, and the mouthwatering scent of street food. Strings of glowing paper lights swayed between buildings, and music floated through the air—something old, joyous, and deeply local.
You were elbow-deep in flour and slightly burnt noodles at a stall near the center square, laughing as a group of children tried to help and made an absolute mess of everything. Your hair stuck to your face, there was something sticky on your pants, and your smile had never been wider.
Hunter leaned against a post nearby, arms crossed, eyes locked on you like you were the only person on the planet. His squad hovered beside him, all wearing variations of amused smirks—except Tech, who was deeply invested in analyzing the music’s rhythm pattern with furrowed brows.
“Stars, he’s doing it again,” Echo said, nudging Hunter’s side with his elbow.
“Doing what?” Hunter muttered, not looking away.
“Staring at her like she’s a dessert he’s too afraid to order,” Wrecker said with a laugh. “Come on, Sarge, just tell her she looks pretty with noodles in her hair.”
“She does,” Hunter said under his breath, then quickly shook his head. “Shut up.”
“She’s going to think you’re broken,” Tech added dryly. “Most humans engage in verbal communication when expressing attraction.”
“You’re all insufferable,” Hunter growled.
“Hey, Hunter!” Omega’s voice chirped brightly, cutting through the banter as she skipped over, cheeks pink with excitement. “Did you ask her yet?”
Wrecker snorted. “Maker, Omega, we’ve talked about subtlety.”
“Oh! Right,” Omega grinned, then leaned up conspiratorially, stage-whispering way too loudly, “You should ask her though. She wants you to. I asked.”
Hunter stared at her, stunned. “You what?”
“Matchmaking,” she said proudly. “Crosshair said you’d drag your feet forever so I thought I’d help.”
“Crosshair’s not even here.”
“Exactly. I’m doing his part too.”
Before Hunter could come up with a coherent response, you turned and spotted them. Your smile brightened when your eyes landed on him.
“Hey! You guys just gonna lurk or actually join the party?”
Hunter stood straighter, clearing his throat. “We’re—uh—considering our options.”
“I’m voting for food and dancing!” Omega beamed, grabbing Hunter’s hand and dragging him forward. “Come on, she saved us noodles.”
⸻
Later, By the Dancing Lanterns
You swayed barefoot on the warm stone path, clutching a sweet drink in one hand and laughing as locals pulled strangers into their dancing circles. The music had picked up, and lights flickered off the sea like tiny stars had dropped into the water.
You spotted Hunter hanging at the edge of it all, looking like a soldier at the edge of a battlefield he didn’t quite understand.
You approached him slowly, grinning up at him as you offered your hand. “Dance with me?”
He blinked. “I don’t dance.”
“You’ve got enhanced reflexes and perfect rhythm,” you said, teasing. “You’ll be fine. I’ll even go easy on you.”
A beat passed. His eyes searched yours, and then—to the shock of everyone within fifty feet—he took your hand.
The music wrapped around you like warmth as he followed you into the circle, stiff at first, focused too hard on every step.
“You’re thinking about it too much,” you whispered, drawing closer. “Let go. It’s just you and me.”
His hand slid to your waist, a bit hesitant, a bit bold. “Easier said than done.”
“Well,” you murmured, brushing your fingers along his chest, “if it helps… I’ve wanted to touch you like this for a long time.”
He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. “You really know how to mess with a guy’s focus.”
“I have excellent timing.”
He finally smiled—small, crooked, but real. “You do.”
You moved together, slower now, drifting into your own little orbit as the circle of dancers spun around you. The music faded into the background, and all that remained was the warmth of his hands, the steadiness of his breath, and the unspoken pull that had been building for months.
⸻
The festival had died down, lanterns bobbing on the sea, distant laughter echoing through the trees. You and Hunter sat by the water, his arm loosely around your shoulders, your head resting against him.
“Didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he said quietly.
You turned toward him. “What?”
“This kind of life. Something soft. Someone like you.”
Your heart twisted. “You deserve this. All of it.”
His fingers brushed against yours, then threaded together slowly. “I used to think needing someone made me weak.”
“And now?”
He looked at you, voice low. “Now I think it makes me human.”
You leaned in, letting your lips brush against his. “Took you long enough.”
From somewhere up the hill, Wrecker’s voice bellowed: “Pay up! I told you they’d kiss before midnight!”
Omega cheered. “You’re welcome!”
Hunter groaned and buried his face in your shoulder. “They’re never letting this go.”
“Good,” you smiled. “Neither am I.”
⸻
⸻
You opened the caf stand before the sun even touched the Senate dome.
It wasn't glamorous—just a small stall tucked between the barracks and the speeder lot, wedged beneath a half-broken overhang and decorated with hand-drawn signs and an ancient droid who beeped exactly once every hour. But it was yours. And more importantly, it was theirs. The clones. You made sure the caf was always hot, the chairs weren't falling apart, and that no one left without at least a bad pun or two.
Most troopers came and went in a rush, trading credits and comm chatter like it was a race. But he—he was different.
Commander Fox.
He never rushed. He never lingered either. Just strolled up every morning with the same unrelenting scowl and said, "Two shots. No sugar." Every time.
You gave him his usual. Every time.
And you always tried to get a rise out of him.
"Careful, Commander," you said one morning, handing him his cup. "Any more caf and you'll start running faster than a speeder on payday."
He stared at you. Deadpan. Sipped.
"That's not how physics works."
You grinned. "It is when you believe."
He didn't laugh, not even close. But the next day, he brought his own cup. It had a cartoon speeder drawn on it. You didn't say a word. Just smiled.
That's how it went.
You told jokes. He tolerated them. You talked about your broken chair, and he fixed it the next morning without a word. You mentioned you hadn't eaten, and a ration bar mysteriously showed up on the counter the next day. He never gave compliments. But he always came back.
And that said more than enough.
⸻
One quiet evening, long after shift change, you were wiping down the counter when heavy footsteps approached.
You turned, surprised. "Commander? You're off-duty."
Fox crossed his arms. "You're still working."
"I run this place. I don't really clock out."
"Still shouldn't be alone out here this late."
You raised an eyebrow. "Are you worried about me, Fox?"
He looked away. "Coruscant's not always safe."
You bit back a smile. "No one's gonna mug the caf girl."
"I'm not worried about the girl," he muttered. "I'm worried about the idiot who tries it."
That one caught you off guard.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, suddenly self-conscious, you busied your hands. "Want a cup?"
He hesitated. "Yeah."
You made it exactly the way he liked—two shots, no sugar—but you handed it over with a napkin this time. Scribbled on it, in your awful handwriting, was a cartoon of Fox with steam rising off his helmet and the words: "Too hot to handle."
He stared at it.
You braced yourself for a groan. A sigh. A disappointed head shake.
Instead, he folded the napkin neatly. Tucked it inside his chest plate. Like it mattered.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"And you're still here."
He looked at you then—really looked. Like he was seeing you for the first time.
"I like the quiet," he said softly. "And the company."
Your breath hitched. The air between you shifted, warm and buzzing with something fragile.
You broke the moment with a smile. "Well, Commander. You keep showing up, and I might start thinking you like me."
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
That shut you up.
He took a sip. Nodded.
Then, as he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Lock up early tonight."
You watched him disappear into the Coruscant haze, heart hammering.
And the next morning?
He came back.
Same time. Same cup.
But this time... he smiled.
Just barely.
But it was enough.
⸻
It started like any other morning.
The usual rush of troopers streamed past, grabbing caf like their lives depended on it—which, for some of them, might've been true. You moved with practiced ease, slinging caf, dodging jokes, and laughing at war stories with just the right amount of enthusiasm.
Fox hadn't shown up yet.
Which was fine. Totally fine. You weren't waiting or anything. Definitely not.
So when a shiny walked up—fresh armor, no markings, bright eyes and all swagger—you smiled automatically.
"Hey there, trooper. What'll it be?"
He leaned on the counter a little too smoothly. "Whatever you recommend. You've got great taste, right?"
You raised an eyebrow. "In caf or in people?"
He grinned. "Hopefully both."
You laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was so bold. He looked about fifteen seconds out of Kamino, full of confidence and charm. The kind of guy who still thought he was invincible.
You liked his energy. Not like-liked, but it was... cute.
So you poured him something with a little extra foam art—because why not? You were allowed to flirt sometimes. Fox certainly wasn't yours.
And then—just as the shiny said, "If I'd known caf girls were this gorgeous, I'd have transferred sooner"—you felt it.
The shift.
A chill ran up your spine. The air got... heavier.
"Trooper."
The voice was unmistakable. Dry, clipped, and sharp enough to slice through steel.
You turned. And there he was.
Commander Fox. Full armor. Full glare. Standing two paces behind the shiny like a thunderstorm in red.
The rookie flinched. "Sir!"
Fox didn't even look at you—just stared the kid down.
"You're holding up the line."
"I—I was just—"
"She's not your mission," Fox said flatly. "Move."
The shiny didn't need telling twice. He grabbed his caf like it was a thermal detonator and bolted.
You blinked, stunned. "Fox..."
He walked up slowly, that same permanent scowl on his face—but his eyes? They were blazing.
"Didn't realize we were flirting with rookies now."
You snorted. "We? I was being nice."
"He was drooling."
"Maybe I'm charming."
He stared. "You're mine."
Your heart skipped. "Excuse me?"
He froze, like the words had jumped out before he could stop them. Then he looked away, jaw tightening.
"I mean... this is your caf stand. Yours. Not for flirting. Not for—" he sighed, cutting himself off. "He's not good enough."
You tilted your head, stepping closer across the counter. "And who is?"
He didn't answer.
So you leaned in a little more, voice soft. "Was that jealousy, Commander?"
He met your gaze finally, and this time, his voice was quiet.
"Yeah."
You stared at him, your heart doing somersaults.
"You could've just said you like me."
"I thought I was being obvious."
You grinned. "You glared a child into submission."
He shrugged. "He had it coming."
You reached across the counter, brushing his hand. "Well, for the record... I'm not into shinies."
His brows lifted slightly. "No?"
"Nope." You handed him his usual. "I've got a thing for grumpy commanders in red armor."
For the first time in weeks, he smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a twitch.
A real one.
Small. Rare.
Perfect.
⸻
The mission went sideways—like most things involving General Skywalker.
The Republic cruiser got hit mid-orbit, forcing the 501st into a crash-landing they barely walked away from. Engines fried. Comms fried. Morale? Hanging on by a few snide remarks from Jesse and a sarcastic comment from Kix.
They hiked miles through jungle and shoreline until they stumbled across it: a sleepy little village tucked in a crescent of cliffs and coral. Sun-bleached stone homes. Palm trees bending in the breeze. Children with wide eyes and old souls.
And then... her.
The village welcomed them with food, drink, and curious smiles. The chief offered shelter. But Rex? Rex couldn't stop staring at the figure twirling barefoot on the sand.
You.
Clothes soaked to the knees, hair tangled with shells, a song on your lips and hands raised to the sky like you were conducting the clouds.
"Who's that?" Jesse muttered, nudging Rex.
One of the villagers chuckled. "That's her. Our ocean spirit. The crazy one."
"She always like this?" Kix asked.
"Always. She talks to the stars. Dances with the tide. Claims the Force whispers in her dreams."
"Right," Rex said flatly, trying very hard not to watch you pirouette through the foam.
⸻
You noticed him the second he stepped into the village.
Not because of the armor—everyone else had that.
But because of the weight on his shoulders. The silence behind his eyes.
He was loud in his stillness. Something broken beneath all that discipline. And you... well, you liked broken things. They had better stories.
So naturally, you made it your mission to get under his skin.
The first time, you startled him by hanging upside down from a tree branch as he walked by. "You're a soldier, but you move like someone who wants peace," you said, grinning. "What a strange contradiction."
He blinked up at you. "What?"
You dropped beside him, barefoot and beaming. "You've got stars in your chest, Captain. Ever let 'em out?"
He stared.
Then turned to Jesse and muttered, "She's weirder up close."
⸻
You danced along the edges of his days.
Offered him woven seashell charms ("For luck."). Sang to him in the mornings ("For clarity."). Told him stories about planets that didn't exist, and beasts made of shadow and seafoam.
At first, he humored you. Called you "eccentric." Maybe a little unhinged.
But over time, when the others laughed—when Anakin smirked and Jesse nudged him—Rex stopped joining in. He started listening. Watching.
You'd talk to the ocean and hum lullabies to fish. You'd draw in the sand and claim it was from a vision. You'd call him "Captain Sunshine" and pretend not to notice how his lips twitched every time.
But the turning point?
It came the night you found him staring at the stars, quiet and heavy.
You sat beside him without asking.
"There's something about you," you said softly. "Like the Force wrapped a storm in armor."
Rex didn't speak. But his hand was still when you placed yours over it.
"You think I'm mad," you whispered, "but the truth is—I've just seen too much. And maybe... maybe I see you too."
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
And for the first time, he didn't see "the village crazy."
He saw you.
⸻
From then on, he started lingering.
He'd listen to your stories.
He'd walk with you on the shore.
He'd steal glances when you danced in the moonlight—shirt soaked, hair wild, joy uncontained.
His men noticed.
So did Skywalker.
"You know she's probably kissed a krayt dragon or something, right?" Anakin teased one evening.
"She said it kissed her," Jesse corrected.
Rex only grunted. But later that night, when you sat beside him by the fire and handed him a shell—"It's for courage," you said—he didn't laugh.
He kept it.
Right there, tucked beneath his chest plate, next to his heart.
⸻
The moonlight filtered through the palm trees, casting silver streaks across the soft sand. The air was warm, a gentle breeze ruffling your hair as you sat with Rex on the quiet beach. His armor, normally so rigid and sharp, lay discarded in a pile beside him. His shoulders were relaxed—more than they had been in days.
For the first time, there was no mission. No enemy. Just the two of you, the waves, and the stars.
You were humming a tune that had no words—just the melody carried by the wind. You always sang when you felt alive. And tonight, you felt alive. There was something in the air, something that shifted between the two of you.
You glanced over at Rex, who had his gaze fixed on the horizon, his arms resting loosely on his knees.
"You know," you began, your voice quieter than usual, "I've been thinking."
He turned his head slightly to look at you, but didn't say anything. You could feel the weight of his attention on you, even without him speaking.
"You're always so serious," you continued, your eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. "I think it's time I gave you a new name. Something that suits you better than 'Captain Sunshine.'"
He raised an eyebrow, but there was a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I told you to stop calling me that."
You grinned, leaning your head on your knees. "But it fits! You're always so bright, even when you try to be grumpy."
"I'm not grumpy," he muttered.
"Sure you're not," you teased. "How about 'Captain Gloomy' then?"
He laughed, a rare, deep sound that made your heart skip. But it was only for a moment before he grew quiet again.
"You know, I don't mind the nickname," Rex said, his voice softer now, more vulnerable than usual. "I just..." He cleared his throat, then looked at you, his blue eyes soft under the moonlight. "I don't want you thinking I'm some sort of walking joke."
Your smile faded, replaced with a warmth that bubbled in your chest. You reached over and took his hand, resting it in your own.
"Rex," you said, your voice low and sincere. "I don't think you're a joke. And I don't call you 'Captain Sunshine' to make fun of you. It's because you shine, even when you don't know it. You've been through so much, but you still manage to have a light in you. It's... rare."
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then he squeezed your hand, a silent acknowledgment of something unspoken. Something neither of you were ready to say yet.
But for the first time in weeks, Rex didn't pull his hand away. Instead, he leaned in, just enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence.
"Stop calling me 'Captain Sunshine,'" he said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place. "Call me Rex."
You blinked, taken aback by the simplicity of it. Rex. He wanted you to call him by his name. Not by rank. Not by some distant title. Just Rex.
And you smiled.
"Okay... Rex."
⸻
The next morning, the peaceful rhythm of village life was shattered.
You were on the shore, as usual—your feet in the water, your hands lifting to the sky as you hummed to the wind. But something was different today. The ocean felt... wrong. The waves rolled with a strange intensity, crashing against the rocks with too much force.
You stood still, listening to the sound of the water. The whispers came to you, as they often did. But this time, they were louder. Urgent.
Something's coming. Something dark.
A chill ran down your spine. You felt it deep in your bones. It wasn't the Force, not really. You couldn't wield it the way the Jedi could. But you felt it—this impending darkness. The kind of thing that stirred in your gut and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.
You rushed into the village, seeking out the chief. You found him in the square, talking to some of the villagers.
"Chief!" You grabbed his arm, your breath quickening. "The ocean is angry. Something is coming. You need to prepare."
The chief looked at you, brow furrowed. "You're rambling again. The ocean is just the ocean."
"But the water—" you began, your hands trembling. "The waves—there's something wrong! It's not just the ocean. It's everything."
He shook his head. "You've always been a little... eccentric. The villagers are afraid of you, but we've never had a problem. Don't stir up fear."
Your chest tightened. No one believed you. Again.
You turned away from him, running towards Rex, Skywalker, and the others, desperate to make them understand.
But even as you spoke to Rex, the worry clear in your voice, he shook his head, not fully understanding. "You're being cryptic again, [Y/N]. We can't just go around acting on every... feeling you have. We need to focus on finding a way off this planet."
"You don't understand," you said, grabbing his arm. "You have to listen to me, Rex. The Force... something's coming. I can feel it. We're not safe here."
Rex's gaze softened for a moment, but there was a stubbornness in him that wouldn't let go. "You're not crazy, but we can't just assume the worst. We're in a safe place."
As if on cue, the first explosion rocked the village.
⸻
The Separatists came from the cliffs, their droid army descending in waves.
The village, so peaceful just hours before, was now a battlefield. The village chief scrambled to rally the villagers, but it was clear they weren't prepared for what was happening. Panic spread like wildfire. Children screamed. Elders tried to hide.
Rex and the 501st were quick to action, weapons drawn, taking position around the village. But the fight was chaotic. Too chaotic. And despite his skill, Rex couldn't shake the feeling that you had been right.
That something was wrong. That something was coming.
And when he looked back to find you, his heart dropped. You weren't by the water anymore. You were in the center of it all—trying to calm the villagers, trying to do something, but you were alone.
You weren't a Jedi, but your connection to the planet and the Force—it had always been there. But now, it was stronger than ever.
But the village was under attack, and Rex—he would do anything to keep you safe. Anything.
⸻
The ground trembled beneath your feet as the first explosion reverberated across the beach, sending the villagers scattering in panic. You had felt it before, but now it was undeniable—the feeling that something was horribly wrong. The droid army had descended without warning, their cold, mechanical clanking filling the air as they stormed through the village.
Rex's sharp voice cut through the chaos. "Form up! Secure the perimeter!" His orders were precise, but even he couldn't ignore the panic that was building. The Separatists had come out of nowhere—this was no mere skirmish. This was an invasion.
You were in the thick of it, dodging through the scrambling villagers, trying to usher the children into the village huts. Your heart pounded in your chest, every instinct telling you to run—run far away—but you couldn't. Not when you felt the waves of darkness closing in.
The Force was alive in you now—alive and screaming. You had never experienced anything like this before. There was something wrong about the way the droids moved. It was as if they had a plan—a deeper purpose. And in the center of it all, you could feel a dark presence, one that made your chest tighten with fear.
You tried to keep your cool, but it was hard. It was hard when you saw Rex, the man you had come to care for, pushing through the village with his brothers, cutting down droids left and right. You wanted to warn him, to tell him to stop, to listen to the warning bells ringing in your soul.
But you were just the village "crazy." What could you say? Who would listen?
⸻
Rex was fighting alongside the rest of the 501st, but his eyes never strayed far from you. He knew you weren't helpless—he knew that. But seeing you caught in the middle of the battle, guiding the villagers to safety, made his heart race in a way he couldn't explain. His usual stoic focus slipped, his movements sharper, more desperate as the battle intensified.
"[Y/N]!" he called out, pushing through a group of battle droids to reach you. "Get to cover!"
You didn't move, your eyes scanning the battlefield, your hands raised as if trying to push the tides themselves back. Your breath was shallow, your mind working overtime to sense the next wave of danger. You felt the air shift—they were coming. But they weren't the droids.
A blinding flash of blaster fire exploded nearby, and Rex's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you behind a nearby hut for cover.
"Stay down!" he shouted, crouching beside you, his voice fierce, desperate. He was holding onto you tightly—too tightly, almost as if he thought letting go would mean losing you.
You caught your breath, staring at him, your hand still on his arm as if grounding yourself. The connection was stronger than ever, but there was nothing you could do but feel.
"I—Rex..." You struggled to find words. "There's something else. Not just droids. Something darker."
He shook his head, his face set with determination. "You're not going through this alone. We're getting you out of here."
But it was too late.
The battle intensified. More droids came flooding into the village, backed by a squad of heavily armored battle droids. You felt it—the pull of the darkness, tightening its grip around your chest. The very air seemed to grow thick with danger.
The droids were growing stronger by the minute. The battle outside was escalating, and the villagers had nowhere to run. You felt the heavy presence of Skywalker's power drawing closer, but you couldn't bring yourself to move. Rex had his orders. He was focused on defending the villagers, but in the pit of your stomach, you knew—if something wasn't done, this battle would turn into something much worse.
But then, everything stopped.
The unmistakable sound of blaster fire and screeching engines tore through the air. Anakin Skywalker.
"Didn't think you'd get rid of me that easily, Rex!" Skywalker's voice crackled through the comms. The roar of his ship's engines echoed as he barreled through the droid lines, his starfighter tearing through the air, blasting droids out of the sky with precision.
"I knew you'd show up," Rex muttered, a grin creeping onto his face despite the chaos. "Where have you been?"
"Just finishing off a few stragglers!" Skywalker's voice came back with a mischievous chuckle, as his ship soared overhead, dropping bombs and causing explosions in its wake. He was pulling the droid forces back.
The Separatists were retreating, forced to deal with the new wave of attacks from the air and ground.
Rex glanced back at you, his blue eyes full of concern. "We need to move now. They're still coming."
With Skywalker's timely intervention, the tide of battle had shifted. The 501st took advantage of the confusion caused by Skywalker's precision strikes, their assault growing fiercer. It wasn't just the droids that were retreating—Skywalker's presence had thrown them off balance, leaving the droid army scrambling for cover.
The villagers, assisted by the 501st, rallied together to get the wounded to safety. The battle raged on, but the droids were systematically wiped out. It wasn't a clean victory, but it was a victory nonetheless.
Finally, after the dust settled, you stood on the beach, your eyes still searching the horizon. You could feel the last traces of Skywalker's energy dissipating, his presence fading from the air. The village was safe—for now—but the cost had been heavy.
The 501st was preparing to leave. Skywalker had repaired his starfighter—patched up and fueled as best as he could with what limited resources the village had. His unorthodox heroics had cleared the sky, and now, it was time to go.
Rex stood beside you, silent for a moment, his hand resting on the hilt of his blaster. "We've got to go," he said, his voice soft.
You nodded, your heart heavy. You knew this was coming—the goodbye.
You looked up at him, trying to find the words. But there was only one thing you could say.
"You're going back to the fight," you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion.
Rex nodded, his gaze shifting downward for a moment before meeting yours again. "It's my job. It's what I'm good at."
You smiled softly, even though it hurt. "I know." Your fingers brushed his, and for a fleeting moment, the world stood still between you two.
Rex hesitated. There was something in his eyes now, something deeper than the soldier he had always been. He took a step closer, his hand reaching for yours. "Come with us. There's always a place for you with the 501st."
You shook your head gently, your heart aching with the decision. "No, Rex. You belong out there, with them. This is where I need to be. This is my home."
He looked at you for a long time, his gaze tender and filled with an unspoken understanding. "I'll never forget you, [Y/N]."
"I know," you whispered.
You pulled away, taking a deep breath. "Goodbye, Rex."
And as he turned to leave, you couldn't help but feel that your connection—this strange, beautiful bond between you—would remain. Even across the stars.
Rex glanced back one last time, his helmet under his arm, his eyes full of regret and something else—something you couldn't name. But then he was gone, heading to the shuttle with his brothers, disappearing into the sky.
And you stood on the shore, watching the stars shimmer in the distance, knowing that, just maybe, you would always feel that pull toward him. Across time, across galaxies, and even the darkness that threatened to divide them.
The Force, it seemed, had a way of bringing souls together—if only for a little while.
The scent of smoke and metal still clung to the air as your heels echoed down the marbled hallway of your battered palace. The ornate glass windows had been blasted out, replaced with ragged holes and jagged edges. Sunlight streamed through in fractured patterns, landing across the gold embroidery of your gown and the heavy sapphires around your neck. The dress was too fine for war, too stiff for practicality—but you wore it anyway.
You were Queen.
And queens did not cower in simple cloth.
You now stood unmoving at the top of the grand staircase, the full weight of your crown pressing into your brow. You wore gold today. Not out of vanity, but strategy. A queen in splendor inspires hope. Even in ruin.
"Your Majesty," came the low voice of your advisor, hurrying behind you, "the Republic forces have landed. General Kenobi himself leads them, along with the 212th."
You nodded once, expression like carved obsidian. "Take me to them."
_ _ _
Obi-Wan Kenobi looked every bit the seasoned general, robes dusty from landing, beard trimmed despite the chaos. At his side stood a clone in white and orange armor, helmet tucked under one arm. He stood straight-backed and still, as if carved from the same stone as your palace columns.
You descended the steps slowly, every movement deliberate. You knew how to command a room. You knew how to wield silence as a weapon.
"General Kenobi," you greeted coolly.
He bowed. "Your Majesty. We regret the delay. The 212th is ready to assist."
Your gaze drifted to the commander. Younger than the general. Sharper somehow. His dark eyes met yours, unreadable.
"And who are you?"
"Commander Cody, ma'am," he said, voice clipped and precise. "At your service."
You took a moment, letting your silence test him. He didn't shift. He didn't waver. Good.
"I'm not interested in pleasantries, Commander. The Separatists hold my people hostage in the east quarter. If you're here to help, do it. If not, get out of my city."
Cody inclined his head, neither offended nor intimidated. "Understood, Your Majesty."
Obi-Wan cleared his throat, clearly amused. "I believe you'll find Commander Cody is quite... efficient."
You turned, the gems on your gown glittering with every step. "Then I expect results."
_ _ _
You watched the battle unfold from a tower overlooking the eastern district, eyes tracking orange and white armor sweeping through the rubble like fire. Commander Cody moved like he was born for it—blaster ready, tactics sharp, calm under fire.
You found yourself watching him more than the battlefield.
It wasn't just attraction. No, you'd been courted before. Dignitaries. Princes. Senators. But none of them understood war. None of them had bled for something greater. None of them had stood unmoved when you raised your voice.
He had.
Later, he found you in the ruined throne room, maps and war reports strewn across a cracked obsidian table. You didn't look up as he entered, but you felt him pause. Watching you.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
You arched a brow. "Because I'm young?"
"Because you're beautiful," he said bluntly. "And still more terrifying than most warlords I've met."
A slow, dangerous smile touched your lips. "Careful, Commander. That sounded almost like admiration."
He stepped closer. "It was."
"We leave at dawn," he said quietly.
You nodded. "You've done well."
He gave a faint smile. "So have you."
There was silence, the kind that hangs just before a storm—or a kiss. You stood close. Closer than duty allowed. Your hand brushed against his arm as you passed him, deliberately slow.
"I'm not the type to wait around, Commander," you said softly. "But I remember loyalty."
And with that, you left him standing in the ruins of a palace he helped save—his heart torn between orders and the ghost of your perfume.
_ _ _
Night blanketed the capital in quiet shades of blue and silver. The fires had died down. The people slept. The palace—scarred but standing—breathed silence through its stone corridors.
You stood alone on the balcony of your private quarters, the city below wrapped in darkness. A wind brushed through your hair, catching on the delicate sapphire pins at your temples. You weren't in ceremonial silk tonight—just a velvet robe, deep indigo, soft against your skin. Lighter. Easier to breathe in.
"You should be resting," came his voice behind you, low and steady.
You didn't turn. "So should you."
Cody stepped forward, stopping beside you, eyes scanning the skyline. He looked out of place here—so sharp and war-worn against the softness of your world—but somehow, he belonged.
"They'll be fine without me for a few hours," he said.
You let the silence stretch. Then: "It wasn't just my people they came for. The Separatists wanted to break me. Make an example of this world. Of me."
Cody glanced at you, surprised by the honesty in your voice. Your chin was still high, your spine still regal—but your voice was softer now. Human.
"I've never been this close to losing everything," you murmured.
He didn't offer pity. He didn't rush in with hollow reassurances. He just stood beside you, letting your words exist without judgment.
"You didn't lose," he said finally.
You turned to look at him, his face half-lit by moonlight. You studied him—creased brow, quiet strength, the scar at his temple. Not beautiful, not polished. But real.
"You leave at dawn," you said.
He nodded. "We've been reassigned. New system. New war."
You looked down, then away. "Will I see you again?"
The question slipped out before you could cage it. A raw thread of vulnerability woven into your otherwise unshakable voice.
Cody didn't hesitate. "If there's a path back here, I'll take it."
You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his skin through his blacks.
"Then go with honor," you whispered. "And come back with your heart still yours."
He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. "Why mine?"
"Because..." You hesitated, just for a breath. "You're the first man who's ever looked at me and didn't see just a crown."
His jaw tightened, barely. His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then, slowly—carefully—he reached up, cupping your face with a gloved hand.
"Then I hope when I come back..." he murmured, voice low, "you'll still be wearing it."
You leaned in before you could think twice. Your lips met his—soft, sure, but brief. A kiss meant to linger.
It wasn't passion. It wasn't fire.
It was a promise.
When you pulled away, your forehead rested against his for just a moment longer.
"Until next time, Commander," you whispered.
"Until next time... Your Majesty."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the quiet night, the war, and the stars.
Before the War, Before the Fall...
You were never supposed to be here.
Once, long before the clone army ever existed, you were a Jedi Knight of the Old Republic. A warrior of the High Order, trained in the arts of peace and battle alike. Your robes were stitched from tradition, your saber forged in a time when the galaxy still believed in balance. You fought in the Mandalorian conflicts, aided in the fallout of Sith uprisings, and stood beside legends long turned to dust.
And then, during a critical mission—classified even by High Council standards—you were frozen in carbonite for protection, hidden away on an unmarked moon. Preserved in silence. Time passed. Empires fell. Republics reformed.
You were forgotten.
Until General Skywalker found you.
Woken from carbon stasis nearly a thousand years later, you emerged into a war-torn galaxy so alien, it barely recognized you as Jedi. The robes were the same. The Code had survived in pieces. But the people... *they* were different.
Especially the clones.
You had never seen soldiers bred for war. The first time you met the 501st, they moved as one—disciplined, deadly, proud. But each man had a spark of something unique. Echo's spark shone brightest to you.
ARC Trooper Echo, all calm focus and sharp wit. Loyal to a fault. Quietly brave. There was a warmth beneath his helmet that reminded you of someone you lost long ago.
And over time, in the stolen spaces between battles and strategy briefings, you found yourself seeking him out. And he—hesitantly, almost shyly—did the same.
You shared jokes, glances, meditations by moonlight. Nothing official. Not even a kiss. Just the ache of something growing where no roots should've taken hold.
---
**Now...**
The hangar echoed with the sound of carbon-freeze generators.
You stood near the chamber platform, arms folded, watching the 501st prepare for the Citadel mission. An infiltration like no other. High risk. No guarantee of return.
Your heart beat in time with the distant hiss of steam. You'd been in carbonite before. You wouldn't wish it on anyone.
"You really want to go through with this?" you asked as Echo approached, helmet tucked under his arm.
He smirked. "I've seen worse."
You raised an eyebrow. "Really? *Worse* than being flash-frozen and dropped into a fortress built to kill Jedi?"
He shrugged with a boyish tilt of his head. "When you put it like that..."
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. "I don't like this mission. Something feels... off."
Echo's smile faded just slightly. "I know. But we follow orders."
You stared at him a long moment, eyes locking with his.
"I've had my fair share of carbon-freeze," you said softly, a wry smile tugging at your lips. "Trust me—it's overrated. Don't make it a habit."
Echo chuckled, but there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe. Or hope. His fingers brushed yours briefly.
"If I don't make it back—"
"You *will*," you cut in.
He held your gaze. "Still. If I don't... I'm glad it was you."
The words hung in the air like an unsent message. You swallowed the ache in your throat.
"I'll be waiting," you whispered.
Then the chamber hissed open, and Echo stepped inside. You watched as he was encased in freezing mist—familiar, haunting. And then he was still.
---
They returned.
Most of them.
But not him.
You heard the news with numb detachment. "Echo didn't make it." Skywalker didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Fives couldn't speak at all.
You were handed Echo's pauldron. Burnt. Cracked.
But the Force...
The Force *whispered* something else.
In meditation, beneath the endless hum of the ship, you reached for that flicker—the warm, stubborn light of him. It was faint. Weak. But not extinguished.
You pressed your hand to your heart and said nothing.
Because you knew.
*Echo was still alive.*
And whatever the cost... you'd find him.
---
You couldn't let it go.
No matter how much time passed, or how many battles you fought alongside the 501st, there was something you couldn't shake—a gnawing feeling deep in your soul. Echo was out there. You knew it. The Force whispered it to you every time you closed your eyes.
You felt him.
The report had come through the 501st's channels—Echo was alive, but he was a prisoner. He had been taken to Skako Minor and reprogrammed, twisted into something... else. A broken version of the man he had once been. But you didn't care. You would bring him back. You would save him, no matter the cost.
Rex was right beside you, his unwavering loyalty to Echo just as strong as your own. The two of you, separated by a galaxy of uncertainty and destruction, had always understood each other in ways the others couldn't. Rex had never let go of his brother, and neither had you.
And now, you couldn't help but feel the heavy weight of the decision as you prepared for the mission. You weren't just doing this for Echo anymore. You were doing it for both of you—him and you. For the love of a comrade, a soldier, a friend, and perhaps, deep down, someone more.
"I won't rest until we find him," you whispered to Rex before the mission began.
Rex gave you a stern nod, though his eyes were soft with the same grief you carried. "We're not stopping until we bring him home."
You shared a glance with him—a silent understanding of what this meant. Echo had always been there, in the trenches with them, in the hardest of battles. But now, it was different. The question of who he was had morphed into something unrecognizable. Would the man you both knew still be the same when you found him?
---
The mission was critical, and time was running out.
You, along with Rex, Anakin Skywalker, and the Bad Batch, had infiltrated the outpost on Skako Minor. The Separatists had taken Echo—one of the finest ARC Troopers—and turned him into a prisoner, forced to serve their twisted agenda. You, however, weren't going to let that happen. Not if you could help it.
Echo was still alive. He had to be. You could feel it.
The journey to the outpost had been a long and difficult one, but now, standing on the precipice of their base, you knew what needed to be done. You had trained with Echo, fought beside him. He was family, and you weren't about to lose him to the war.
The place was cold, mechanical, and sterile—almost too quiet for comfort. It felt like a graveyard. But the faintest sound of movement ahead cut through the silence.
You turned, locking eyes with Rex. His jaw was set, his gaze firm. Beside him, Anakin stood, ready for anything. And then, there was Echo.
But he wasn't the same.
There he was—strapped into an array of machines, wires trailing from his body, his face emotionless. The pain of seeing him like this nearly broke you in that moment, but you knew it wasn't over. He was still Echo.
"Echo," Rex called softly, stepping forward. "We've got you, buddy. We're getting you out of here."
For a moment, there was nothing but the hum of machines and the silence of the outpost. Then, a flicker of movement. Echo's head turned slowly, his eyes blank, as if the man you once knew was buried deep inside somewhere, and this was just the shell.
You stepped forward, your heart racing in your chest. "Echo? Can you hear me?" Your voice was calm, but it cracked with the emotion you could no longer contain. You were here. You had found him.
Slowly, Echo's lips curled into a small, dry smile—familiar, but tinged with something distant.
"You know, I was starting to get used to this place," Echo's voice was robotic, distant. "It's better than the barracks, but I think I could've done without the wires."
You laughed softly, despite the ache in your chest. "You always did have a way with words. Still, this is no place for you. We're taking you back, Echo. You belong with us."
Echo's gaze flickered toward you briefly, his eyes dull but still alive with some trace of recognition. "You... came for me," he muttered, as though trying to process the reality of it.
"You know we would," you said, your voice firm, yet gentle. "You're one of us, Echo. You don't leave your squad behind."
But Echo's face darkened, his expression turning pained. "I'm not the same anymore," he said quietly, almost regretfully. "They've done something to me. I don't know if I can go back to being who I was."
The words hit you hard. But you refused to back down. "That doesn't matter. You're still the same person, Echo. You've always been there for us. We are still here for you."
Echo shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the floor. "I don't know... I don't think I can go back to being that soldier. I've changed."
Rex stepped forward, his voice low but commanding. "You're more than what they've made you, Echo. You've always been more than that
For a moment, Echo seemed to consider this, his eyes moving between you and Rex. But then, he shook his head slowly.
"I don't know if I can go back to who I was," he said softly, his voice tinged with regret.
Rex's hand clenched into a fist. "You don't have to go back. We're here for you, Echo. We'll fight for you."
Anakin stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. "We'll help you, Echo. We're not leaving anyone behind."
Echo's expression remained stoic, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Maybe... maybe I'm not the man you want me to be," he whispered. "Maybe I'm not that soldier anymore."
The pain in Rex's eyes was palpable, but his voice was resolute. "You're not alone, Echo. You never were. And we're not leaving without you."
The escape was chaotic.
Once Echo was freed from the machine bindings, the alarms blared throughout the facility. There was no time to waste. You, Rex, Anakin, and the Bad Batch fought your way out, blasters blazing, all while Echo struggled to regain his bearings. His movements were stiff, his mind clouded from the reprogramming, but with every passing moment, you could see him coming back to himself—albeit slowly.
It was Anakin who led the charge through the outpost's corridors, his strategic mind piecing together their escape route even as enemy fire rained down on them. Rex covered you, his blaster raised and steady, while you kept your focus on Echo, guiding him through the madness.
"You're with us, Echo. We'll get you out of here," you said, trying to keep him calm. He didn't respond, but the faintest nod was all you needed.
When you reached the hangar, the Bad Batch took their positions, covering the exits and keeping the Separatists at bay. Echo was stumbling, but he kept moving forward, a faint glimmer of the soldier he once was starting to re-emerge. You didn't know if he would ever be the same again, but for now, he was with you—and that was all that mattered.
"Keep moving, Echo," you said as you pushed him toward the ship.
"I'm with you," he muttered, his voice rough but steady. "I'll never leave you behind."
Finally, after what felt like hours of intense combat, you made it to the ship. The engines roared to life, and the transport shot off into the atmosphere, away from the chaos of Skako Minor.
As you all settled into your seats, the adrenaline of the escape began to wear off, and the weight of what you'd just witnessed settled in. Echo was alive, but he was still so far from being the man you remembered. The wires, the reprogramming, the suffering—it was all etched into him in ways you couldn't yet fully understand.
But you were determined to help him heal. You didn't care what it took— and you wouldn't leave him behind again.
- - -
The chaos of the mission on Skako Minor had finally settled, leaving an overwhelming sense of relief in its wake. The Marauder, the ship piloted by the Bad Batch, now cut through the stars as it headed towards the Republic fleet. It was a rough ride—no surprise there, considering the crew—but it was a comforting one. There was a sense of familiarity with the Bad Batch's eccentricities, their usual banter filling the air around you. However, the most comforting part of all was Echo, sitting across from you.
It had been a long and arduous rescue, but Echo was finally free—physically, at least. The mental scars of his time with the Separatists would take longer to heal.
Echo was seated across from you, leaning back slightly in his seat, his expression distant. His posture was less rigid than usual, but you could see the storm behind his eyes. The escape had been harrowing, and he was still processing everything.
Wrecker, the ever-vibrant and boisterous member of the Bad Batch, was rummaging around in the back, most likely looking for snacks. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say we were all a little too quiet today," he said with his signature grin, tossing a bag of chips to Tech, who caught it with precision.
Tech raised an eyebrow but accepted the snack. "We've just been through a rather intense operation, Wrecker. A little silence isn't a bad thing."
Meanwhile, Hunter leaned against the wall near the cockpit, his piercing eyes scanning the ship's systems, though his attention occasionally drifted toward you and Echo. You knew he respected Echo's capabilities, but you also suspected that he had noticed the bond growing between the two of you.
Rex, too, had been quietly observing, but it was clear from his relaxed posture that he was relieved. Everyone had come out of the mission alive, but the tension was far from gone.
You turned your attention back to Echo, noticing how his eyes occasionally flickered toward the viewport. The stars outside were nothing compared to the turmoil inside him, and it hurt you to see him struggling.
You shifted in your seat and, without thinking, reached across the aisle to gently nudge his arm. "You know, I've had my fair share of carbon freezing," you joked softly, trying to lighten the mood. "So I can't say I'm jealous of you getting to do it again."
Echo blinked, looking at you as a quiet smile tugged at his lips. "I think I've had enough of it for a lifetime," he said with a soft chuckle. "That last time wasn't exactly a vacation."
Your heart fluttered at the sound of his voice, the way the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You shared a brief moment of eye contact before he looked back at the stars, and you took the opportunity to close the distance just slightly, your hand brushing against his. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes in that quiet moment.
The Marauder continued its journey through the void, the hum of the ship's engines filling the air. But it wasn't just the ship that seemed to hum now—it was the quiet connection between you and Echo, something that had always been there, unspoken. The bond between the two of you felt more tangible now, as if the events of the mission had brought you even closer together.
Wrecker, still in the back, called out over his shoulder, "Hey, you two going to just stare at each other the whole ride, or are we finally going to get a real conversation out of you?"
Echo let out a quiet laugh, his eyes flicking to you with a playful, almost sheepish expression. "I think we're getting there."
You couldn't help but grin at the playful teasing, but your heart was racing. A brief glance passed between you, and for just a moment, you felt like the weight of everything—the war, the danger, the mission—faded into the background. It was just you and him, the connection between you two solidifying in that quiet space.
Echo's voice was lower now, more intimate as he leaned slightly closer. "I don't know how to say this, but... I'm glad you were here. I don't think I could have made it through this without you."
Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. The words were too big to express, but the warmth in your chest was enough to convey everything.
"You don't have to say anything," you replied quietly, your voice barely a whisper. "I'm just... happy you're safe."
Echo gave a small smile before his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, sending a flutter through your stomach. "Safe, but not unscathed."
The words lingered between you, but this time, it didn't feel like an obstacle. It felt like a truth you were both starting to accept. For the first time in what seemed like forever, Echo wasn't just a soldier you fought beside. He was something more. Someone more.
- - -
When the Marauder finally docked with the Republic fleet, the hangar bay was filled with the usual bustle of activity. You all disembarked, the quiet tension of the mission still hanging in the air. Everyone's expressions were marked by the weight of what had just happened.
Echo, though physically alive and well, still seemed lost in his thoughts. The Bad Batch, as usual, carried on with their typical behavior, but there was a more subdued air about them. Hunter gave a curt nod of approval as you all made your way toward the command center.
As you walked together, Echo's hand brushed against yours again, a simple, tender touch that made your heart skip. You looked at him, your breath catching in your throat.
"Well, I guess we're back," you said with a light smile. "Not exactly how I imagined the rescue would go."
Echo smirked, his fingers lingering on yours.
Your heart swelled at the softness in his eyes as he looked down at you. You couldn't help the smile that spread across your face, the affection clear in your gaze.
Before either of you could speak again, Rex came up beside you, giving you a teasing look. "Hey, I don't know what's going on between you two, but I'm pretty sure you're both walking into a warzone if you don't get it together soon."
Echo chuckled, his face reddening just a little. "Rex is right, you know. Maybe we should take some time to... figure things out."
You nodded, your heart racing. "I think that's a good idea."
Wrecker, who had been trailing behind, chimed in from a distance. "Oh great! Another love story brewing on this ship. I hope it's not as dramatic as the last one!"
You and Echo exchanged a playful glance, both of you rolling your eyes at Wrecker. Amused but not wanting to pry on the Batch's secret love lives.
With your hand still in his, Echo leaned in slightly, his voice soft. "I'm not going anywhere. Not this time."
You smiled, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace settle over you. "Good. Because I don't think I could do this without you."
The two of you walked side by side toward the command center, the quiet between you now a comfortable one. You had no idea what the future held, but in that moment, you knew one thing for sure—you and Echo had finally found something worth holding onto.
_______
Part 2
The hangar ramp hissed open, and your boots hit the deck like you owned it. Technically, you didn't—but you were Plo Koon's former Padawan, still carrying his signature balance of unshakable calm and cutting sarcasm.
You tugged your hood down and grinned as you spotted two familiar figures on the bridge: Plo Koon, standing with serene patience, and Commander Wolffe beside him, looking like someone had just asked him to smile. Again.
"Master," you greeted with a playful bow. "Commander."
Without turning, Plo said, "You're late... again."
You smirked. "As long as I'm not late to my own funeral. You must know by now I consider this punctual."
Wolffe crossed his arms. "With your timing? It's a miracle you've not already had one."
You gave him a slow once-over. "Still charming as ever, I see. The scowl really brings out the war-torn veteran vibes. Very scarred and emotionally unavailable of you."
Wolffe didn't even flinch. "And you're still running your mouth like we've got time for it."
Before you could reply, Boost and Sinker passed behind him, lugging crates and throwing looks.
"Someone's in love," Boost sang under his breath.
"Poor Commander," Sinker added, "didn't stand a chance."
Wolffe didn't even turn around. "I can still reassign both of you to sewage detail."
You held back a laugh—barely.
"Are all your men like this now?" you asked your old Master.
Plo Koon gave a low hum. "Sassy. Grumpy. Aggressively loyal."
"So you picked them to remind you of me."
"I missed you," he said without missing a beat.
Your heart actually squeezed at that, but you covered it with, "Well, I hope you're ready, because if Commander Growl here is leading the op, I might die from sarcasm before I die from blaster fire."
Wolffe raised an eyebrow. "I don't babysit Jedi."
You stepped closer. "Good. I don't need a babysitter. I need someone who won't cry when I outrank him in sass."
He stared at you, deadpan. "You won't."
You stared back. "You sure?"
Pause.
"Unfortunately."
Plo Koon interrupted before one of you ended up biting the other. "We deploy in two hours. I expect both of you to survive long enough to get along."
You and Wolffe answered at the same time.
"No promises."
---
The landing zone was chaos.
Blaster fire lit the sky, droids rained from drop ships, and the ground was already smoking. You and Wolffe hit dirt side by side, crouched behind the smoldering wreckage of what used to be a tactical transport.
"Well," you said, deflecting a bolt with your saber, "this is cozy."
"You call this cozy?" Wolffe growled, firing a shot so clean it sent a super battle droid straight to the scrap heap.
You smirked. "I've had worse first dates."
He didn't look at you, just reloaded. "You're bleeding."
You glanced at your shoulder. Blaster graze. "A little paint off the speeder. I'm fine."
"You should patch it."
"Are you worried about me, Commander?"
"No. I just don't want to carry your dramatic ass off the battlefield."
"You mean you can't carry me."
"Try me."
Before you could sass him again, Boost's voice crackled through comms.
"Commanderrr, she's making that face again."
"You mean the one that says 'I flirt by mocking your trauma'?"
Sinker's voice joined in, deadpan: > "So... her default face."
"Copy that, shutting off comms now," Wolffe said dryly—and actually turned his comm off.
"Coward," you muttered, slashing through another droid.
But underneath all the banter, you were moving in sync. You ducked when he fired. He stepped when you struck. Like muscle memory. Like old training and shared violence. Like maybe, somehow, this shouldn't feel so... natural.
_ _ _
The op was a win. Barely.
You were bruised, bleeding, and parked on a cold medbay cot with a bandage wrapped around your shoulder. Wolffe was sitting across from you, helmet off, that glorious scar catching the sterile light.
You stared at it. Again.
"I can feel you looking at it," he grumbled, arms crossed.
"Can't help it. It's criminally hot."
He blinked. "It's a war wound."
"Exactly."
He shook his head. "You're weird."
"You're pretty," you shot back—mostly to see him flinch.
And oh, he flinched. Glared like you'd punched him in the stomach.
"I—what—don't—" he sputtered. "You can't just say things like that."
"You mean compliments?"
He looked genuinely appalled. "You take one like it's a threat!"
"Because they usually are! Last guy who called me beautiful tried to shoot me two hours later."
Wolffe rubbed his face. "We are so emotionally damaged."
You grinned. "You like it."
He muttered something about Jedi being a menace, and you stepped closer. Right into his space. Close enough to see the tension in his jaw—and the way he didn't move away.
"Wolffe," you said quietly. "You're allowed to like me. Even if I'm mouthy. Even if I scare you a little."
"You don't scare me."
You leaned in.
"Good."
Then you kissed him. And stars, he kissed you back.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't gentle. It was the kind of kiss you gave a person when you both knew tomorrow might not come. Hard, real, desperate in that quiet, aching way soldiers kiss—the kind that says I know we're doomed, but just for tonight, pretend we're not.
When you finally pulled back, he was breathing a little heavier.
"...You're exhausting," he whispered.
"You love it."
"...Unfortunately."
From the next room, Boost called, "If you're done making out, the rest of us are bleeding."
Sinker added, "Bleeding and emotionally neglected."
Wolffe let his head thunk against your shoulder.
You just smiled. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Maker help me," he muttered.
But he didn't say no.
⸻
The mission was simple: a supply drop to a small village that had been hit hard by the Separatists a few weeks ago. The 104th were tasked with delivering medicine, food, and supplies, and Master Plo had insisted on accompanying them—his calm presence often a welcome relief in tense situations. It was a peaceful village now, recovering from the wreckage, though it had its oddities.
And one of those oddities stood waiting on the village outskirts as the shuttle carrying the 104th came in to land.
You were a local, though you didn’t seem to fit the mold of the average villager. You were known as the “village crazy,” a title you wore with pride. You were eccentric, a little wild, and, to put it bluntly, you were unlike anyone the soldiers had ever met. You spent most of your days wandering the village, dancing on the shoreline, speaking in riddles, and telling stories—stories that were elaborate, nonsensical, and always different from the last. You had a gift for spinning tales that no one could follow, and you never told the same story twice. There was always something new, something unexpected, and most importantly, you never left anyone with the same sense of reality.
The shuttle doors opened, and Commander Wolffe was the first to step off, his helmet glinting in the sunlight. He scanned the area, taking in the sight of the quiet village, a few villagers waving at him and his men. The 104th were used to these kinds of missions—helping out the people who needed it, always the soldier’s duty.
But the moment his eyes landed on you, standing in the middle of the village with your arms raised to the sky, spinning in slow circles, he stopped.
“Well, this is going to be… interesting,” Warthog muttered from behind him, a grin creeping up on his face as he watched you twirl, completely oblivious to the soldiers’ presence.
“You sure she’s not a droid in disguise?” Boost asked, his brow raised as he adjusted his rifle.
Wolffe only sighed. “She’s definitely not a droid.”
At that moment, you caught sight of Master Plo, and your face lit up with an expression of delight. You skipped over to him, arms wide, your bare feet brushing the ground as you moved with a fluid grace that felt otherworldly. “Master Plo! The sky told me you would be here today! The wind, the ocean—it all speaks when it’s time.”
Master Plo gave you a serene smile, ever the diplomat. “I’m glad to see you, [Y/N]. What news do the stars share with you today?”
“The stars are confused,” you replied cryptically, your voice playful yet serious. “They’ve lost their way, Master Jedi. The moons are turning, but the tides are still.”
Wolffe, standing a few paces back, exchanged a glance with Warthog. His brow furrowed, and he couldn’t suppress a mutter under his breath. “This is going to be a long mission.”
You, however, took no notice of his cynicism. You had already moved to the next subject, dancing in circles as you spoke. “I once saw a giant fish the size of a mountain! It came out of the sea and roared at the sun! It was blue, but it wore a cape made of clouds—like a king of the waves!”
Wooly snorted. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, shaking his head. “A fish that wears a cape?”
“I’m telling you, Wooly,” you replied with a wink, “I’m never wrong. You’ve just never looked at the ocean the way I do.”
“And how’s that?” Boost asked, raising an eyebrow.
With a sly smile, you leaned in closer to him, speaking in a lowered voice. “With the eyes of a mermaid, of course. You can see everything—beneath the waves, beneath the stories, beneath the stars. You just have to listen.”
Wolffe, arms crossed, watched the exchange with growing confusion. “Right,” he muttered, glancing over to Master Plo. “Is she always like this?”
Plo chuckled softly, his calm demeanor unwavering. “Yes, but there’s wisdom in her madness. [Y/N] sees the world in a way that few of us can. Sometimes, we just have to let the river flow.”
“River…?” Wolffe raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. He’d seen his fair share of strange characters, but none quite like this one. You were certainly different.
Master Plo turned back to you with a smile. “And how have you been, [Y/N]? The village looks well, I see.”
You spun once more, eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and mystery. “I’m good! But… oh, the tide’s about to turn again, Master Jedi. I can feel it! I can hear the whales calling from the mountains, and the ground feels restless. Something’s stirring.” You leaned in toward him conspiratorially, whispering as though sharing a great secret, “The sky’s eyes are looking this way, and I think… I think it’s about time for a visit from the stars.”
Wolffe watched, unimpressed but intrigued nonetheless. “Great, more riddles.” He muttered under his breath, but Plo only chuckled.
“There’s more to her words than you think, Commander,” Plo said gently. “She is… connected to the Force in ways that don’t always make sense to us.”
You, still twirling, suddenly stopped and looked directly at Wolffe, catching him off guard. “The moon is rising, Commander. The shadows are long, and the stories are ready to be told. But be careful—there are wolves in the woods that sing songs of fire.”
Wolffe raised an eyebrow. “Wolves in the woods?”
You nodded, as though everything you said made perfect sense. “The kind that howl with the wind. But no need to worry; they only come when the stars fall.”
He gave you a half-hearted smile, his skepticism never wavering. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
You grinned widely. “Good, Commander. You must always listen to the stars and the wolves. They know things we cannot.”
As the day wore on, Wolffe, Boost, Warthog, and Wooly found themselves working alongside the villagers, setting up the relief supplies and ensuring that everything was distributed properly. You flitted around the camp, speaking to anyone who would listen with your wild stories and cryptic observations.
At one point, you approached Wolffe again, who was overseeing the unloading of medical supplies.
“You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in the boxes, Commander,” you said, giving him a pointed look.
He glanced at the crates and then back at you, a little bemused. “And what exactly am I looking for, [Y/N]?”
“The truth,” you answered with a knowing smile, your voice soft and almost tender. “But it’s hiding behind the moon. It always is.”
Wolffe blinked, processing the strange words. For a moment, he wanted to laugh it off, to brush you aside as just another eccentric villager. But something in the way you spoke—so sure, so confident in your own world—made him pause.
Maybe, just maybe, there was more to you than the others saw. And maybe, just maybe, your wild stories held a grain of truth.
⸻
The days passed in a haze of strange encounters and stories as the 104th continued their relief mission in the village. Commander Wolffe found himself oddly drawn to the “village crazy,” as she was affectionately known. You were an enigma—one moment spinning wild tales about stars, the next, dancing barefoot along the shore or chatting to animals as though they were old friends. It was baffling, and Wolffe couldn’t help but find a strange charm in your unpredictability.
He would catch glimpses of you wandering around the camp, your eyes gleaming with excitement as you spoke to the sky, or weaving through the villagers as though you were part of something larger than what any of them could comprehend. There was an air of serenity about you, a sense of knowing that Wolffe couldn’t quite place. You were unpredictable, yes, but there was a peacefulness in your madness that was strangely… grounding.
The oddest part? Master Plo seemed to have no issue with it. He’d often smile as he watched you interact with the world around you, a knowing look in his eyes.
“I think, Commander,” Master Plo had said one evening as they watched you from a distance, “there is wisdom in her madness. She sees the world through a different lens, but that lens allows her to glimpse truths we might miss.”
Wolffe gave him a skeptical look. “She’s a little… strange.”
Master Plo chuckled softly. “We all are in our own way, Commander. Sometimes, it’s not the surface that matters, but what lies beneath. [Y/N] may have more to offer than she lets on.”
Wolffe didn’t respond, instead just watching you as you twirled across the village square, talking animatedly to an empty chair as though it was a long-lost friend. He couldn’t deny that there was something captivating about you—something that made him want to learn more, despite himself.
Meanwhile, the rest of the 104th had their own thoughts on the matter. Sinker and Boost in particular weren’t quite as enchanted by your eccentricities. They had grown used to following orders, taking things seriously. And the constant stream of bizarre stories you told and your odd behavior didn’t sit well with them.
“You know, I’m starting to think we’re all in the middle of some bizarre dream,” Sinker grumbled as he leaned against a crate, watching you dance in the distance. “She’s like a walking, talking riddle.”
“She’s a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside a headache,” Boost added with a smirk, crossing his arms as he watched you spin around.
You had been telling tales about the stars and the oceans again when they spotted you—this time, however, you weren’t just dancing by the shore. You were out in the water, waist-deep, moving gracefully around a strange creature—a sort of aquatic alien, with shimmering scales and bioluminescent markings that flickered like the stars themselves. It was an oddity they had never seen before.
“What in the galaxy is that?” Sinker asked, eyes wide in disbelief.
“It looks like some kind of alien fish… thing,” Boost said with a chuckle. “That’s one way to make a splash.”
You didn’t seem to care that they were watching. You danced with the creature, laughing and singing softly to it in a language none of them recognized. Your voice blended with the sound of the waves as you seemed to communicate with the animal, a soft bond of mutual understanding between you and the strange creature.
Wolffe had joined the two clones at the edge of the village, having finished his patrol. He looked over at the scene in the distance, his brow furrowing slightly as he saw you in the water, laughing with the alien. His first instinct was to protect you, but the sight was strangely calming. You were unbothered by their stares, completely immersed in the moment.
“She’s definitely got some screws loose,” Sinker muttered under his breath, watching you from a distance.
Boost snorted. “I don’t know, Sinker. Maybe she’s onto something. Who else do we know who can communicate with random sea creatures?”
“She’s not communicating with it, Boost,” Wolffe said, his voice surprisingly soft. “It’s… just a connection. You can’t understand it unless you’ve seen it for yourself.”
Sinker and Boost exchanged looks before Sinker laughed. “You’re starting to sound like her, Wolffe. Watch out, you might start dancing with fish too.”
Wolffe didn’t respond. He just watched you, a flicker of something uncertain passing through his mind. He was… intrigued. Fascinated, even. The way you seemed to fit into the world so effortlessly, the way you didn’t care what anyone thought. It was a sharp contrast to the rigid, regimented life of a clone trooper.
⸻
The relief mission was drawing to a close, and the 104th were preparing to leave. The shuttle would be ready for takeoff within the hour. Supplies had been delivered, the villagers were starting to rebuild, and the atmosphere of quiet recovery settled over the village. It was a peaceful ending to a mission that had, in its own strange way, been one of the more memorable ones.
The 104th had gathered near the shuttle, preparing to board, when Wolffe found himself standing a little further back from the others. His helmet was tucked under his arm, and he was quietly observing the bustling village one last time. His thoughts, however, were far from the mission. His mind kept wandering back to you—the village “crazy.” You were unlike anyone he had ever met, and even now, as he watched the villagers wave goodbye to the clones, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that you had somehow made your way into his thoughts.
You weren’t far off. As always, you had a way of slipping into the edges of their world without anyone noticing—until it was too late.
Wolffe’s eyes caught sight of you as you wandered over to him, your bare feet making no sound against the dirt path. You were humming a tune that didn’t seem to belong to any world the clones knew, a soft, almost haunting melody that drifted in the warm air.
“Commander Wolffe!” you called out, your voice light and filled with the same mystery that seemed to surround you. “I have something for you.”
He turned to face you, raising an eyebrow as you approached. “Something for me?” he asked, his tone flat, though his interest was piqued. “What’s that?”
You stopped just in front of him, your eyes sparkling with mischief, and held out your hand. In it was a small, smooth rock—nothing extraordinary, but there was something special about the way you presented it. It glinted in the sun, and the edges were rounded, worn down by time, smooth like a river stone.
“This is a gift from the stars,” you said cryptically, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “You’ll need it where you’re going. It will remind you to listen to the waves, the winds, the stars… and to yourself.”
Wolffe hesitated for a moment, eyeing the rock in your hand. “I don’t need reminders, [Y/N],” he said, though his voice softened at the end. “I’m not the kind of man who needs… stars.”
You smiled wider, a knowing look in your eyes. “That’s why you’ll need it,” you replied with a wink. “When the time comes, you’ll hear them. I promise.”
For a long moment, Wolffe simply stared at you, unsure of how to respond. Your words, as always, felt like a riddle wrapped in a mystery, but there was a sincerity to them that made him want to believe you. He could hear the faint whisper of the wind through the trees, the faint sound of the ocean nearby. Maybe… just maybe, there was truth to what you were saying. And maybe, you were right.
“Alright,” he muttered after a moment, taking the rock from your hand. “I’ll keep it. But don’t expect me to start listening to the waves.”
You smiled brightly, as if you’d won a great victory. “It’s not the waves you need to listen to, Commander,” you said softly. “It’s the silence between them.”
There was a brief silence between you two, neither of you moving. Wolffe felt something shift in the air—a quiet, inexplicable connection that, despite his reservations, had grown over the past few days. You had a way of making him feel… less like a soldier and more like a man, someone capable of hearing the things he normally ignored. Even if it didn’t make sense, it didn’t feel wrong.
The moment was interrupted by the sound of Warthog shouting from the shuttle, his voice carrying over the wind. “Commander! Get over here! We’re ready to leave!”
Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t immediately turn away. Instead, he glanced back at you. Your eyes were filled with that quiet understanding again—like you could see right through him.
“Well, I guess this is it,” you said softly, spinning the rock in your fingers like a talisman. “Don’t forget to listen.”
“I won’t forget,” Wolffe said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But I might not listen, either.”
You chuckled, a sound that seemed to carry across the entire village. “You never know when the stars will choose to speak to you, Commander.”
With that, you stepped back, giving him space to go. But just before he turned away, you added one final word. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to listen.”
Wolffe stood there for a moment, staring at you with a mixture of confusion and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. You were so strange, so utterly different from anyone he had ever met. And yet… there was something comforting in your oddity. Something that made him feel less alone in a world that often felt too rigid, too predictable.
He finally gave you a small nod, almost imperceptible. “Take care of yourself, [Y/N].”
And then, with a final glance over his shoulder, Wolffe walked toward the shuttle, leaving you standing there at the edge of the village, your figure bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.
⸻
As the shuttle lifted off, Wolffe leaned against the side of the ship, looking down at the small rock in his hand. He had no idea what it would mean, or why it felt like the weight of the universe was pressing against it. But somehow, he didn’t mind. There was something about that village, something about you, that had made him believe—if only for a moment—that there was more to life than just the orders he followed.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s what the stars were trying to tell him.
*Based on Pabu*
⸻
Your little sushi shop didn’t look like much from the outside—just a corner nook with faded sea-blue paint and a handwritten chalkboard menu—but it was yours. A quiet dream built on fish markets, rice steamers, and the salty Pabu breeze.
And it had one very big, very loud, very lovable regular.
Wrecker.
He first stumbled in by accident, really. Something about Omega spotting the place and dragging him along with promises of “raw fish and weird seaweed rolls” she wanted to try.
You remembered watching him duck to fit through the doorway, nearly taking the paper lantern with him. The moment he sat on the cushion—you swore it gave up the ghost. You’d nearly burst out laughing. So had Omega.
And yet, after one massive order (three rolls, two bowls of rice, and miso soup he drank straight from the pot), he patted his stomach and declared it the “best food I ever had that didn’t come in a ration pack or get cooked over a fire by Crosshair!”
He meant it. He kept coming back. Sometimes with Omega, sometimes alone.
And over time… you fell.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t fireworks. It was slow. Like the way he grinned with soy sauce on his cheek. The way he lit up whenever Omega told stories and always listened like every word was gold. The way he tried to use chopsticks and ended up stabbing his sushi like it had wronged him. The way he always complimented your food. Even on the days you messed up the rice.
He sat at the same spot. Always the far left cushion, near the open window where he could watch the sea and keep an eye on Omega playing with the local kids.
He told you stories too. About the Batch. About the war. About planets you’d never heard of and creatures he’d wrestled, often embellishing the size.
“I swear, the thing was this big!” he’d gesture, arms spread wider than your doorway.
You’d laugh. You always laughed.
But lately, it hurt a little. Because you loved him. And you didn’t know if he saw you as anything other than “the sushi girl.” A friend. A safe place. A routine.
You weren’t extraordinary. You didn’t fly ships or fight droids. You didn’t save people or have scars to show for anything but kitchen burns.
You were just… here. Making sushi.
And he was Wrecker.
⸻
It was a quiet evening when he came alone. The sun painted everything in gold, the sea calm and whispering.
You were cleaning up when you heard the familiar grunt of him ducking through the doorway.
“Hey, Wrecker,” you said, smiling softly. “No Omega?”
“She’s off with Hunter. Some market thing.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Thought I’d drop by anyway. Got a seat for me?”
“Always.”
He took his spot. You brought out his favorite roll without asking.
You didn’t talk much at first. Just the quiet sound of chopsticks failing and him switching to his fingers after a few tries.
“Y’know,” he said suddenly, “I like it here.”
You paused, halfway to wiping down a table. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s peaceful. And you’re always nice to me. Even when I eat too much.”
You chuckled, heart thumping. “I like having you here.”
He looked up at you then, serious in a way he rarely was.
“I hope this ain’t weird,” he said. “But I think about you. A lot. When I’m not here.”
Your breath caught.
He kept going, nervously, like he was charging into battle. “I don’t really get how all this… love stuff works. But I know how I feel. And I know I wanna be around you more. If that’s okay.”
Your hands were shaking. You smiled, eyes misting over.
“I thought I was just a friend to you,” you whispered.
“Nah,” he said, softly this time. “You’re more.”
He stood, awkwardly towering over the bar, then reached out and touched your hand with his massive, callused fingers.
“Unless you don’t want that. Then I can just keep eatin’ sushi and shuttin’ up.”
You laughed through a tear. “I want that. I’ve wanted that.”
⸻
From then on, nothing changed—and everything did.
Wrecker still sat in the same seat. Still made a mess. Still laughed too loud.
But now he held your hand under the table. Now he walked you home after close, grumbling that he had to make sure you were safe—even on the safest island in the galaxy. Now he left tiny gifts on the counter: shiny shells, carved wood, one time a flower that got squished in his fist but still smelled sweet.
Omega noticed right away, of course. She beamed at you both.
“Took you long enough,” she said, biting into a rice ball. “He talks about you all the time.”
You just smiled and passed her another plate.
Your heart full. Your quiet dream now shared.
⸻
Read more by me
Summary: By day, she’s a chaotic assistant in the Coruscant Guard; by night, a smoky-voiced singer who captivates even the most disciplined clones—especially Commander Fox. But when a botched assignment, a bounty hunter’s warning, she realizes the spotlight might just get her killed.
_ _ _ _
The lights of Coruscant were always loud. Flashing neon signs, sirens echoing through levels, speeders zipping like angry wasps. But nothing ever drowned out the voice of the girl at the mic.
She leaned into it like she was born there, bathed in deep blue and violet lights at 99's bar, voice smoky and honey-sweet. She didn't sing like someone performing—she sang like she was telling secrets. And every clone in the place leaned in to hear them.
Fox never stayed for the full set. Not really. He'd linger just outside the threshold long enough to catch the tail end of her voice wrapping around the words of a love song or a low bluesy rebellion tune before disappearing into the shadows, unreadable as ever.
He knew her name.
He knew too much, if he was honest with himself.
---
By some minor miracle of cosmic misalignment, she showed up to work the next day.
Coruscant Guard HQ was sterile and sharp—exactly the opposite of her. The moment she stepped through the entrance, dragging a caf that was more sugar than stimulant, every other assistant looked up like they were seeing a ghost they didn't like.
"She lives," one of them muttered under their breath.
She gave a mock-curtsy, her usual smirk tugging at her lips. "I aim to disappoint."
Her desk was dusty. Her holopad had messages backed up from a week ago. And Fox's office door was—blessedly—closed.
She plopped into her chair, kicking off her boots and spinning once in her chair before sipping her caf and pretending to care about her job.
Unfortunately, today was not going to let her coast.
One of the other assistants—a tight-bunned brunette with a permanently clenched jaw—strolled over, datapad in hand and an expression that said *we're about to screw you over and enjoy it.*
"You're up," the woman said. "Cad Bane's in holding. He needs to be walked through his rights, legal rep options, the whole thing."
The reader blinked. "You want *me* to go talk to *Cad Bane?* The bounty hunter with the murder-happy fingers and sexy lizard eyes?"
"Commander Fox signed off on it."
*Bullshit,* she thought. But aloud, she said, "Well, at least it won't be boring."
---
Security in the lower levels of Guard HQ was tight, and the guards scanned her badge twice—partly because she never came down here, partly because nobody believed she had clearance.
"Try not to get killed," one said dryly as he buzzed her into the cell block.
"Aw, you do care," she winked.
The room was cold. Lit only by flickering fluorescents, with reinforced transparisteel separating her from the infamous Duros bounty hunter. He sat, cuffs in place, slouched like he owned the room even in chains.
"Well, well," Cad Bane drawled, red eyes narrowing with amusement. "Don't recognize you. They finally lettin' in pretty faces to read us our bedtime stories?"
She ignored the spike of fear in her chest and sat across from him, activating the datapad. "Cad Bane. You are being held by the Coruscant Guard for multiple counts of—well, a lot. I'm supposed to inform you of your legal rights and representation—"
"Save it," he said, voice low. "You're not just an assistant."
Her brow twitched. "Excuse me?"
"You smell like city smoke and spice trails. Not paper. Not politics. I've seen girls like you in cantinas two moons from Coruscant, drinkin' with outlaws and singin' like heartbreak's a language." His smile widened. "And I've seen that face. You got a past. And it's catchin' up."
She stood, blood running colder than the cell. "We're done here."
"Hope the Commander's watchin'," Cad added lazily. "He's got eyes on you. Like you're his favorite secret."
She turned and walked—*fast*.
---
Fox was waiting at the end of the hallway when she emerged, helm on, arms crossed, motionless like a statue.
"Commander," she said, voice trying to stay casual even as adrenaline buzzed in her fingers. "Didn't think I rated high enough for personal escorts."
"Why were you down there alone?" His voice was calm. Too calm.
"You signed off on it."
"I didn't."
Her stomach sank. The air between them thickened, tension clicking into place like a blaster being loaded.
"I'll speak to the others," Fox said, stepping closer. "But next time you walk into a room with someone like Cad Bane, you *tell me* first."
She raised a brow. "Since when do you care what I do?"
"I don't," he said too fast.
But she caught it—*the tiny flicker of something human beneath the armor.*
She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips again. "If you're going to keep me alive, Commander, I'm going to need to see you at the next open mic night."
Fox turned away.
"I don't attend bars," he said over his shoulder.
"Good," she called back. "Because I'm not singing for the others."
He paused. Just once. Barely. Then he walked on.
She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.
---
She walked back into the offices wearing oversized shades, yesterday's eyeliner, and the confidence of someone who refused to admit she probably shouldn't have tequila before 4 a.m.
The moment she crossed the threshold, tight-bun Trina zeroed in.
"Hope you enjoyed your field trip," Trina said, arms folded, sarcasm sharp enough to cut durasteel.
"I did, actually. Made a new friend. His hobbies include threats and murder. You'd get along great," the reader shot back, grabbing her caf and sipping without breaking eye contact.
Trina sneered. "You weren't supposed to go alone. But I guess you're just reckless enough to survive it."
The reader stepped closer, voice dropping. "You sent me because you thought I'd panic. You wanted a show."
"Well, if Commander Fox cares so much, maybe he should stop playing bodyguard and just transfer you to front-line entertainment," Trina snapped.
"Jealousy isn't a good look on you."
"It's not jealousy. It's resentment. You don't work, you vanish for days, and yet he always clears your screw-ups."
She leaned in. "Maybe he just likes me better."
Trina's jaw clenched, "Since you're suddenly here, again, congratulations—you're finishing the Cad Bane intake. Legal processing. Standard rights. You can handle reading, yeah?"
The reader smiled sweetly. "Absolutely. Hooked on Phonics."
---
Two security scans and a passive-aggressive threat from a sergeant later, she was back in the lower cells, now much more aware of just how many surveillance cams were watching her.
Cad Bane looked even more smug than before.
"Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled, shackles clicking as he shifted in his seat. "You just can't stay away from me, huh?"
She dropped into the chair across from him, datapad in hand, face expressionless.
"Cad Bane," she began, voice clipped and professional, "you are currently being held under charges of murder, kidnapping, sabotage, resisting arrest, impersonating a Jedi, and approximately thirty-seven other counts I don't have time to read. I am required by Republic protocol to inform you of the following."
He tilted his head, red eyes watching her like a predator amused by a small animal reading from a script.
"You have the right to remain silent," she continued. "You are entitled to legal representation. If you do not have a representative of your own, the Republic will provide you with one."
Bane snorted. "You mean one of those clean little lawyer droids with sticks up their circuits? Pass."
She didn't blink. "Do you currently have your own legal representation?"
"I'll let you know when I feel like cooperating."
She tapped on the datapad, noting his response.
"Further information about the trial process and detention terms will be provided at your next hearing."
"You're not very warm," he mused.
"I'm not here to be."
"Pity. I liked earliers sass."
She stood up. "Try not to escape before sentencing."
"Tell your Commander I said hello."
That stopped her. Just for a second.
Bane smiled wider. "What? You thought no one noticed?"
She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She left with her heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.
That night, 79's was packed wall to wall with off-duty clones, local droids trying to dance, and smugglers pretending not to be smugglers. She stood under the lights, voice curling around a jazz-infused battle hymn she'd rewritten to sound like a love song.
And there, in the shadows by the bar, armor glinting like red wine under lights—
Commander Fox.
She didn't falter. Not when her eyes met his. Not when her voice dipped into a sultry bridge, not when he didn't look away once.
After the show, she took the back exit—like always. And like always, she sensed the wrongness first.
A chill up her spine. A presence behind her, too quiet, too deliberate.
She spun. "You're not a fan, are you?"
The woman stepped out of the shadows with a predator's grace.
Aurra Sing.
"You're more interesting than I expected," she said. "Tied to the Guard. Friendly with a Commander. Eyes and ears on all the right rooms."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Aurra's lip curled. "Doesn't matter. You're on my radar now."
And she vanished.
Back in her apartment, she barely kicked off her boots when there was a knock at the door. She checked the screen.
Fox.
Still in full armor. Still unreadable.
"I saw her," he said before she could speak. "Aurra Sing. She was following you."
"I noticed," she said, trying to sound casual. "What, did you tail me all the way from 79's?"
"I don't trust bounty hunters."
"Not even the ones who sing?"
He didn't answer. Either he didn't get the joke, or he was to concerned to laugh.
"You came to my show," she said softly. "Why?"
"I was off-duty."
"Sure. That's why you were in full armor. Just blending in."
A beat passed. Then he said, "You were good."
"I'm always good."
Another silence stretched between them. Less awkward, more charged.
"You're not safe," Fox said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."
"Yeah? You offering to babysit me?"
He almost smiled. Almost. Then, wordless, he stepped back into the corridor.
The door closed.
But for a moment longer, she stood there, heartbeat loud, his words echoing in her mind.
You're not safe.
And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.
———
Part 2
The battle for Ryloth raged on, the skies above choked with smoke and the echoes of blaster fire. The clones fought valiantly, as they always did, but in the midst of the war, it was the civilians who suffered most. The Twi'leks were caught between the Separatists' relentless assault and the Republic's effort to free them.
Commander Cody, his distinctive armor marked with the colors of the 212th Attack Battalion, was in the thick of it, leading his troops through the war-torn streets. The noise of the battle was deafening, but he focused, always focused, as he barked orders and ensured his men stayed on task.
Then, in the midst of the chaos, he saw her.
A Twi'lek woman, her emerald skin marked with the familiar patterns of her people, stumbled in the open, narrowly avoiding a blaster bolt. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her lekku twitched nervously. She was no soldier—just a civilian, caught in the crossfire.
Without thinking, Cody sprinted toward her, grabbing her arm and pulling her to safety just as another volley of blaster fire whizzed past them. They ducked into the shadow of a nearby building, the sound of the battle muffled by the walls around them.
"Stay down," Cody ordered, his voice calm despite the chaos. His heart was racing, adrenaline flooding his veins, but his instincts were razor-sharp. "I'll make sure you're safe."
She nodded, her wide eyes still full of fear. She was clearly shaken, but her strength was evident. She wanted to run, to fight, but she knew she had no place in this war. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant sounds of blaster fire. "I—I don't know what I would've done without you."
Cody looked at her, his brow furrowing slightly. There was something about her, something that tugged at him, but he didn't have time to think about it. There was a war to fight, and civilians needed to be protected.
He turned back toward his men, ensuring the area was clear before giving her a nod. "Stay close. I'll get you out of here."
But just as he stepped toward the street to lead her to safety, a distant explosion rocked the ground beneath them. Cody stumbled, pain shooting up his side as he fell to one knee, his vision swimming. He reached out, steadying himself, but the pain was too much.
"Commander!" she gasped, rushing to his side.
"I'm fine," he gritted through clenched teeth, but his body betrayed him, and he crumpled against the wall. Blood seeped through the cracks in his armor, a clear sign that he had been injured more seriously than he realized.
"No, you're not," she insisted, kneeling beside him. "Let me help you. Please."
Her eyes were full of concern, and something deeper—something warmer—flashed between them. It was a connection neither of them had expected but couldn't ignore. In the middle of the battle, amidst the destruction and death, there was only the two of them in this small corner of the world.
She pulled a medical kit from the pack she had slung over her shoulder, her hands steady as she worked to clean his wounds. Cody winced, but he remained quiet, letting her do what she could.
"You're a medic?" he asked, his voice strained but appreciative.
"No," she replied softly, applying pressure to his side. "Just someone who knows a little bit about surviving. I've had to learn." Her words were matter-of-fact, but there was something raw in her tone that made Cody's heart tighten.
Her hands were gentle, moving with care, as if she could heal not just his body but the war-torn world around them. It was a kindness, a rare gift in a universe filled with conflict, and Cody found himself entranced by the sincerity in her touch.
Once the worst of the bleeding had been stopped, she sat back, wiping the sweat from her brow. Cody caught his breath, the pain dulling but not entirely gone.
"You're a good woman," he said softly, his voice low, a hint of admiration in his words.
She smiled at him, though her eyes were full of uncertainty. "I'm just doing what needs to be done. It's the only way I can survive."
Cody's eyes softened as he gazed at her. He had been trained to fight, to lead, to be the soldier the Republic needed, but in this moment, all he wanted was to stay. To stay here with her, away from the war, even if only for a little while.
But duty called. And as the sounds of battle drew closer, Cody knew he had to go. He stood slowly, wincing at the pain in his side but determined.
"You need to get to safety," he said, his voice resolute. "It's not safe here."
She stood as well, her eyes sad but understanding. "I know. But... what about you? What happens to you?"
Cody gave a half-smile, despite the pain. "I'll be fine. I'll be with my men again soon enough."
She didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue. Instead, she stepped closer, looking up at him with a mixture of gratitude and something else. Something deeper.
Cody hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. In the midst of the war, in the middle of a planet torn apart by conflict, they were two people, bound by something greater than the galaxy around them.
Without thinking, he reached out and cupped her cheek gently. Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull away. In that brief moment, time seemed to stand still.
And then, without a word, he leaned down, brushing his lips softly against hers. It was a kiss filled with everything they both couldn't say, everything that had built up between them in their short time together. It was tender, lingering, and full of all the things they couldn't share—*but* they did, in that fleeting moment.
When they pulled away, Cody's breath was unsteady, his heart racing, but he forced a smile. "Goodbye," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And thank you. For everything."
She smiled softly, a sad yet knowing expression crossing her face. "Goodbye, Commander," she replied, her voice steady. "Stay safe out there."
With one last glance, Cody turned and began to walk away, the pull of duty stronger than anything else. But as he disappeared into the distance, he couldn't shake the memory of her—her touch, her kiss, and the warmth in her eyes.
He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know if they would ever meet again. But for a brief moment, amidst the chaos of war, he had found something that felt worth fighting for.
And that was enough.
---
*warnings* - death
And then, there was Wolffe.
Commander Wolffe—one of the few clones who had earned your trust completely—stood in the corner, his helmet in hand, his broad shoulders relaxing for the first time today. His gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, content simply to share the quiet that filled the space between you.
Despite the war and the strict boundaries of your roles, you had always felt something more for him. It started as camaraderie—two soldiers who understood the price of duty—but over time, the bond deepened into something more complicated, something you could never speak of aloud.
"How are the men?" you finally asked, your voice breaking the silence.
Wolffe's lips curved into a half-smile, though there was a sadness behind his eyes. "They're good. Holding steady. As long as I'm around, they know what's expected." His gaze softened, but there was something unreadable about his expression. "What about you, Jedi? Are you holding steady?"
Your heart fluttered slightly at the sound of your title—Jedi. It still felt strange to hear it from him. You were no longer the young Padawan of Master Plo Koon, his silent guidance ever-present, but now you were a Jedi Knight, responsible for countless lives. But it didn't make the distance between you and Wolffe any easier to bear.
You didn't know how to answer him, how to explain that, while you were a Knight of the Order, part of you was constantly torn between duty and the feelings you had for him. It was forbidden—Jedi and soldiers were not meant to share such attachments—but those lines had blurred long ago.
"I'm..." You paused, searching for the right words. "I'm here, Wolffe. Just trying to keep us all alive."
His gaze never wavered from yours, and the weight of his look made your pulse quicken. There was a silent understanding between you, a quiet admission that neither of you could ever truly voice aloud. You wanted to be close to him, to be more than comrades, but the Jedi Code—your duty—kept you at arm's length.
He stepped closer, the usual tension in his posture relaxing just a fraction. "I know what you want, Jedi," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. "But I can't have you distracted. We've been through too much for that."
You swallowed, the knot in your throat tightening. "And I can't ignore what I feel," you replied quietly. "But I won't let it affect my duty, Wolffe. Not now."
He chuckled softly, but it lacked its usual humor. "The war's not kind to people like us."
The silence hung between you for a long moment, both of you standing there, unsure of what to say next. But the unspoken truth between you lingered, undeniable, even in the midst of the endless war.
Then, you both heard the sharp hiss of the door opening, and you quickly broke your gaze, stepping back as though the moment had never happened. Wolffe returned to his usual stoic demeanor, but there was still a flicker in his eyes.
It was always like this—moments stolen in between the chaos, stolen moments that both of you knew couldn't last.
The mission had been successful, the Separatist threat neutralized. Yet, a strange heaviness filled the air as you returned to the cruiser. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—something was coming, something that neither you nor Wolffe could stop.
As the day wore on, you found yourself drawn to the Jedi temple for brief meditation. But then, the unmistakable buzzing of your commlink interrupted the rare moment of peace.
Before you could even comprehend it, the cold realization hit like a tidal wave. The clones, your brothers, the soldiers who fought beside you—they were ordered to execute all Jedi. Including you.
You didn't hesitate. Your instincts kicked in, and you sprinted through the hallways, hoping against hope that somehow, the clones wouldn't be able to carry out the order. Wolffe, however, was waiting in the shadows, and the moment you laid eyes on him, your breath caught in your throat.
"Wolffe," you called, voice trembling but determined. "You have to listen to me—this isn't you."
His eyes flickered for a moment, uncertainty clouding his usually steadfast gaze. "I have no choice, Jedi," he said, his voice a hollow echo.
The words hit you like a blow to the chest, but you refused to back down. "Wolffe, please—this isn't you. This is an order, an order you can't control. You're not just a soldier. You're more than this."
His helmeted face was a mask, but you could see the hesitation in his stance, the way his hands shook as they held his weapon. For a split second, you thought he might break free from the mind control, might step away and abandon the mission to kill you. But that hesitation was fleeting.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, voice strained as though the words themselves were foreign to him. "I'm sorry... but I have to do this."
Your lightsaber ignited with a snap-hiss, and you tried to reach him, tried to make him understand, but the clones—your brothers—were already moving in, following the orders they were given, following the programming they couldn't fight.
Wolffe fired, the blaster bolt striking you square in the chest. You barely had time to react, your body forced into the unforgiving cold of the ship's hull.
You gasped, your vision blurring as the world tilted, everything fading into darkness. Your last thought was of Wolffe—of the man who had meant so much to you, the man you loved, and the man you knew would never have the chance to love you back. You reached out with your hand, trying to call out to him, but no words came.
Wolffe stood frozen in place, his heart shattering as he watched you fall, the weight of the blaster's shot sinking deep into his soul. He had never wanted this. Never wanted to hurt you. But the order... the order had been too strong, too powerful.
As the last of the life left your eyes, Wolffe's knees buckled, his helmet clattering to the floor as he collapsed beside your body. His hands trembled as they hovered over you, unable to fix the damage, unable to undo the pain.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again, the guilt crushing him from within.
But the war, the Order—nothing could undo what had been done. And Wolffe was left alone, stricken with guilt and a heart full of love he could never express. His final regret was that he'd never told you how much you meant to him before it was too late.
The bustling streets of Coruscant were a blur of light, noise, and endless movement. The Bad Batch had been given a rare shore leave, and Hunter had eagerly taken the opportunity to get a bit of downtime away from the usual chaos of war. It wasn't often they were allowed to relax, but even soldiers like them needed a break.
As they wandered the lower levels of Coruscant, they found their way to 99's, a popular clone bar. It was loud, filled with clones from different units, and the occasional few off-duty soldiers mingling in the mix. Hunter felt the familiar weight of the day's stress melt away as he sank into a chair at one of the tables with his squadmates, taking in the relaxed atmosphere. They'd earned this, after all.
Hunter leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly scanning the room, when something—or rather, *someone*—caught his eye. A woman, dressed in civilian clothes, her dark hair swept back in a simple ponytail, moved gracefully through the crowd. She was laughing with a few off-duty soldiers, her carefree attitude contagious. There was something about her presence that stood out in the crowded bar, a certain energy that seemed to draw attention without her even trying.
Hunter couldn't quite place it, but his eyes lingered a moment longer before he turned his attention back to his comrades. "I'll be right back," he muttered, standing up and slipping through the crowd towards the bar.
The woman noticed him immediately, her gaze locking with his for just a brief moment. Something flickered in her eyes, a flash of recognition so quick that it almost didn't register in the chaos of the bar. But to Hunter, it felt like a gut instinct. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen her before, but he pushed it aside. It wasn't as if he made it a habit to keep track of every face he saw.
Reaching the bar, Hunter leaned against it and ordered a drink, scanning the room once again. He wasn't used to these civilian crowds, and he quickly realized he was a little out of place. His rough military demeanor didn't quite blend with the casual energy of the bar. But, as usual, he didn't mind standing out.
The woman from earlier moved toward the bar, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she sidled up next to him. "Another soldier on shore leave?" she asked, her voice low but warm. There was a teasing glint in her eye, as though she had all the time in the world and was just here to enjoy the moment.
Hunter smiled, his usual wariness easing slightly. "You could say that. First time I've had some real downtime in a while."
She raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to the bar as she grinned. "Must be nice," she said, giving him a sidelong glance. "I don't get much of that, myself. Always busy."
Hunter chuckled, unsure of whether she meant that as a joke or something more serious, but decided to roll with it. "I can imagine. You seem... well, busy right now," he said, motioning to the group of soldiers she had been talking with earlier.
She shrugged nonchalantly. "Just making the most of it. A girl's gotta have her fun, right?"
There was something about her confidence, her carefree attitude, that made Hunter want to know more. The sense of familiarity nagged at him, and yet he couldn't put his finger on why. She was different from most people he met on shore leave—mysterious, elusive even, yet approachable.
"How about you?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face with a look of curiosity. "What's your story? You don't seem like the usual type of soldier. Something about you is... different."
Hunter took a sip from his drink, trying not to let his thoughts get the better of him. "I'm with a special unit," he replied, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to give too much away. "But yeah, I guess I'm a little different from the standard soldiers you see around here."
The woman laughed lightly. "I can tell. You carry yourself like you've seen more than your fair share of... action."
Hunter's lips quirked into a smile. "Something like that."
A moment passed, the air between them charged with an odd, unspoken tension. Hunter didn't know why, but he felt an inexplicable draw to her, a sense of familiarity that he couldn't shake. But before he could say anything else, one of the other soldiers from her group called out to her, signaling her to join them.
"Looks like they're calling me back," she said, turning to face him with a casual wink. "But it was nice meeting you, soldier. Maybe I'll see you around."
Hunter nodded, his mind still racing with that strange sense of recognition. "Yeah, maybe."
As she turned to walk away, a thought flashed through Hunter's mind—something about her seemed so familiar, so deeply embedded in his memory. But before he could dwell on it, the group of soldiers she'd been with crowded her, and she was lost to the noise of the bar.
---
Later that night, Hunter sat back at the table with the rest of the Bad Batch, the quiet murmur of conversation surrounding him. But his thoughts kept drifting back to the woman he'd met at the bar. There was no mistaking it—she had *definitely* seemed familiar.
He couldn't place her, though. It was a feeling that gnawed at him, like a puzzle piece that refused to fit, no matter how much he tried. But there was no time to dwell on it. The mission would come soon enough, and he'd have to be focused.
But somewhere, deep down, something told him that this wasn't the last time he would see her.
---
**Meanwhile,** the woman—the Mandalorian bounty hunter—watched Hunter from across the room, her eyes narrowing as she took another sip from her glass. She knew that he wouldn't recognize her, not with her face uncovered and her armor gone.
But *she* recognized him instantly. The man who had saved her life. The man she had crossed paths with before—the man she had promised herself to forget.
She leaned back in her chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. For now, she was content to keep her secret. There was no need for him to know the truth—not yet. Not until she was ready.
And besides, part of her found a strange thrill in seeing him again, so close, but unaware. It was easier this way—keeping the past buried, and enjoying the present for what it was. Just two people having a good time.
But deep down, she knew this was only the beginning. The past had a way of catching up with them all.
---
---
The sound of blaster fire echoed through the narrow alleyways of the war-torn city. The Republic had been fighting for years, but the true cost of war weighed heavily on everyone—soldiers and civilians alike. Sergeant Hunter and his squad were on a mission: to extract a high-ranking separatist official, someone who held vital intelligence. But things had gone awry, as they often did.
"Alright, boys, spread out," Hunter said, his voice calm but commanding. "We're on a tight timeline."
The Bad Batch—Hunter, Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Crosshair—moved with precision, their enhanced skills making them unmatched on the battlefield. As they advanced through the streets, a shadow flickered at the corner of his vision. A figure clad in Mandalorian armor stood silently against a crumbling wall, watching them.
Hunter's instincts kicked in immediately. He had seen many soldiers and mercenaries, but there was something about this one—a presence, a coldness that didn't quite fit the norm of the typical bounty hunter. She wasn't in full view, but even from a distance, he could tell she was skilled. Her helmet was shaped with the distinct Mandalorian T-visor, and her armor bore the unmistakable dents and scratches of someone who had seen too many battles.
He motioned to Echo, signaling him to take point. "Cover me."
The rest of the squad adjusted their positions, but Hunter moved toward the alley, cautious but intrigued. The Mandalorian's eyes never left him. She didn't reach for a weapon, but she was clearly ready for one if needed. He approached slowly, his blaster at his side.
"Are you lost, soldier?" her voice was low and guarded, but there was an undeniable strength to it.
"Just looking for someone," Hunter replied, studying her carefully. "You?"
"Same," she said with a slight tilt of her head. There was an unreadable expression beneath her helmet, but Hunter could hear the slight hint of amusement in her voice. "But I don't think you're the one I'm after."
Hunter furrowed his brow. "Then you're not a threat?"
She chuckled, and it was a sound that made his instincts flare. "Not to you, no. I'm just trying to survive, same as everyone else."
He took a cautious step closer. "I don't know many who would wear Mandalorian armor and not fight for a cause."
The Mandalorian paused, her posture shifting slightly as she adjusted her stance. "My cause is my own, Sergeant," she said. "I'm no different from you, except I work alone."
Hunter tilted his head, studying her. "You don't seem like someone who works alone."
The Mandalorian's hand subtly rested on the hilt of her blaster, but she didn't draw it. "What do you know about me, Sergeant Hunter?"
Hunter's gaze narrowed slightly. She knew his name. It was strange—he hadn't told her, and yet her tone had a knowing edge. It piqued his curiosity even further.
"I know you're a mercenary of some kind," Hunter said, testing the waters.
"Close enough," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness. "But I'm no mere merc. I'm a bounty hunter. And I have my own code to follow."
Hunter nodded slowly. He'd encountered bounty hunters before, but there was something about her—her confidence, her skills—that set her apart from the usual hired guns.
The two stood in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of war barely breaking the stillness between them.
Hunter wasn't sure why he felt so drawn to this woman, this Mandalorian. Maybe it was the way her presence seemed to hold steady in the chaos. Maybe it was the way she didn't back down, didn't flinch under the weight of the situation. But something in him—the soldier, the leader, the man—couldn't help but want to know more.
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, his tone more personal than he intended.
Her voice softened slightly as she answered, "Same reason as you, Sergeant. I'm looking for someone... or something. And maybe, just maybe, we're both after the same thing."
Hunter's interest peaked. "What do you mean?"
"Let's just say," she began, "I've been hunting a certain individual who's not exactly on the Republic's side. And I'm willing to do whatever it takes to bring him down."
Hunter's gaze hardened as he considered her words. "I get that. But the Republic's not going to take kindly to a bounty hunter crossing their path. Especially a Mandalorian."
The Mandalorian gave him a wry smile. "I've never been one to follow the rules."
Hunter couldn't help but chuckle. "Yeah, I've noticed."
They stood there, exchanging glances, understanding the complexity of the situation. For a moment, there was a quiet understanding between them—two warriors, both driven by duty, yet standing on opposite sides of the battlefield.
"So," Hunter said, "what happens now?"
The Mandalorian's gaze flickered toward the distant sounds of blaster fire and explosions. "Now? We finish the mission. But don't get too attached, Sergeant. My code is my own."
"I don't plan on getting attached," Hunter said, though he couldn't deny the pull he felt toward her, an unspoken connection between two soldiers caught in a war that neither fully understood.
They exchanged one last look before turning back to their separate paths. The mission was still at hand, and neither of them had time to deal with distractions—at least, not yet. But as Hunter moved back to join his squad, he couldn't shake the thought of the mysterious Mandalorian bounty hunter, wondering just how much she was hiding beneath that cold exterior.
And maybe, just maybe, their paths would cross again. The war had a way of bringing people together, even when they didn't want to be.
Summary: After a blast on Umbara, Rex saves you and you are forced to remain in a bacta tank the rest of the campaign. You try to reach out to Rex through the force and he hears your warnings about Krell’s betrayal. When the truth comes out, Rex is consumed with guilt.
The skies over Umbara were poison.
Choked in mist and war.
And somewhere beneath it all, you bled into the dirt.
The blast had taken you hard—chest scorched, body broken. Rex had been the first to reach you, his voice cutting through the chaos, calling your name like it meant something more than rank or Jedi title. He held you as the medics arrived, armor slick with mud and grief.
He didn’t let anyone else carry you.
Not even Fives.
Not even when General Krell barked at him to return to the line.
Once the 501st finally breached the airbase, Rex made sure you were stabilized in the nearest field medcenter. They submerged you into a bacta tank, pale and silent, your saber charred and clipped to Rex’s belt instead of your own.
He stood watch over you every night when he could—alone, visor off, hands balled into fists. Fives had noticed. Hardcase had joked about it once.
He never joked about it again.
_ _ _ _
The First Warning
It came while Rex was reviewing troop formations alone.
A sudden pressure behind his eyes, like a gust of wind had blown through his skull.
“Rex…”
Your voice, faint—like a ripple across still water.
He froze, datapad slipping from his hands.
“General?”
No answer. Just the distant hum of machinery and the low buzz of the bacta tank nearby. He turned toward it. You floated within, unconscious, brow furrowed like you were fighting something that didn’t live in the waking world.
Then—again.
“He is not what he seems…”
Rex’s heart skipped. “General? What—what does that mean?”
But the connection faded, leaving only silence and misty breath against the tank’s glass.
The Second Warning
Rex didn’t sleep that night. Or the next.
Krell was pushing them too hard. The losses were piling. Something was off.
And then it happened again.
He was armoring up when he felt it—a cold sliver down his spine.
“They are not your enemy…”
“He is.”
Rex’s blood ran cold.
“Who?” he whispered into the dark. “Krell? You mean Krell?”
But again, the connection blinked out like a dying star.
He ran his gloved hands through his hair, helmet dangling from his side.
It made no sense.
Krell was a Jedi. Brutal, sure—but wasn’t war brutal by nature? Could he really be turning against them?
_ _ _ _
The Betrayal
And then they were deployed. Told the enemy had stolen clone armor. Told to open fire.
The forest exploded with blasterfire and screams.
And then—
"Cease fire!" Rex’s voice tore through the chaos. “Cease fire!”
It was too late. Bodies littered the jungle floor.
Clones.
Not Umbarans.
His own brothers.
He fell to his knees, helmet slipping from his fingers, the sound of battle replaced by the echo of your voice—
“They are not your enemy. He is.”
He finally understood.
Krell.
He had known. You’d tried to tell him. From inside that tank. From wherever your mind had drifted in the Force, tangled in pain and bacta and fear for the men you both loved.
He felt sick.
Krell needed to pay for this.
_ _ _ _
After Krell’s capture—after the rage, the betrayal, the ghostly silence of the men—
Rex stood outside the medcenter again. Watching you.
You were healing, slowly. Still submerged. Still fighting to wake.
He placed a gloved hand against the glass.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You tried to tell me. I didn’t listen. I should’ve—”
He swallowed hard, guilt a coiled wire around his throat.
“I’m not losing you too.”
And somewhere inside the Force, you stirred.
_ _ _ _
The Force shifted.
Like a breath held too long, finally exhaled.
A weight lifted.
A darkness lifted.
You surged back into consciousness before your eyes even opened—gasping silently in the thick blue haze of bacta, heart racing, the phantom echo of betrayal still ringing through your veins.
He was dead.
Executed.
Dogma.
You felt it.
The weight of his blaster in his hands. The fury. The confusion. The pain.
It is done, the Force whispered.
The war on Umbara was over.
But the ghosts would linger.
You woke gasping, dragging in breath like it hurt. The medical droid flinched back with a startled beep. Your lungs ached. Every inch of you was stiff and raw from mending bones and torn flesh. But you were awake.
And more importantly—alive.
“Captain!” someone called outside. “She’s waking up!”
You barely had time to get out of the tank before boots pounded toward you. Rex stormed in, helmet tucked under one arm, eyes wide and wild and disbelieving. You gave him a weak smile.
“Took you long enough,” you rasped.
He stopped cold. A dozen emotions flickered across his face. Disbelief. Relief. Guilt.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he said quietly.
You leaned back against the pillows, wincing. “You didn’t.”
He stepped closer, slowly, like he couldn’t quite trust the sight of you.
“But I lost them,” he said, voice low. “And I didn’t stop it.”
Your heart cracked open.
“I tried to warn you,” you whispered, reaching out. He took your hand instantly, holding it like a lifeline.
“I know,” he said. “I heard you. In my head. I thought I was losing it.”
You gave his hand a soft squeeze. “You weren’t. I was with you. As much as I could be.”
Rex’s shoulders dropped. The weight of war carved deep into his bones. For a moment, he looked every bit the tired, worn man behind the armor. And you loved him more for it.
_ _ _ _
The medcenter was quiet. Clones moved like shadows—silent, grieving, stunned. You sat upright now, draped in a simple robe, IV lines gone. Still sore. Still healing. But awake.
Rex lingered by your bedside long after the others had gone. He hadn’t spoken in minutes.
Finally, he said:
“They were mine.”
You looked up.
“My brothers. And I shot at them. I followed orders. I didn't question it. Not until it was too late.”
He was shaking. Just slightly. But it was there.
You moved closer, taking his hands again.
“You trusted Krell because he wore the robes. Because that’s what they trained you to do,” you said gently. “You weren’t wrong for trusting him, Rex. He was wrong for abusing it.”
His jaw clenched.
“I should’ve listened to you. I should’ve—”
“Stop.” You reached up, brushing a hand against his cheek, the first real touch you’d shared in weeks. “You did what you could with what you had. And when it mattered—you stopped him. You saved who you could. And you survived.”
He closed his eyes, swallowing hard.
“I don't feel like I did.”
You leaned in, brushing a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead. The kind only you were allowed to give him. The kind no one else could ever see.
“You did,” you murmured. “And you’re not alone.”
Rex didn’t say anything, but his fingers tightened around yours, grounding himself in your warmth.
The battle was over. But the war, within and without, would go on.