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Helllo! I was wondering if you could a spicy bad batch x fem!reader where she used to be a dancer/singer in like a sleezy club, did what was best for easy money. But an op comes up and she needs to it again and the boys didn’t know she had a history of it and are like “oh shit” find it hot but get jealous of the other men. Idk if this makes sense 😅
love your wring! Xx
Bad Batch x Fem!Reader | Spice + Jealousy
⸻
The mission sounded simple enough.
Infiltrate a seedy club on Pantora. Gather intel on a black-market arms dealer that frequented the place. Blend in. Make contact. Get out.
Cid had been vague about the details, just that it required “a certain skill set.” And when her eyes landed on you, there was a flicker of something like smugness.
“You’ll fit right in, sweetheart,” she’d said. “Used to be your scene, didn’t it?”
The Batch didn’t know what she meant by that. But you did.
You’d left that part of your life behind when you joined up with Clone Force 99. The sleezy clubs, the music, the makeup, the stage lights — the easy money, the wandering hands. You’d done what you had to. You were good at it. Too good.
Omega had stayed behind, thank the Maker.
⸻
The club on Pantora was everything you remembered from your past life — sweat-slick air, glitter, smoke, and the kind of stares that made your skin crawl in ways you’d long buried.
Cid hadn’t exactly warned the Batch what she was getting them into. Just said it was a “special assignment” and only you could pull it off.
You hadn’t worn this in a long time — short, shimmering dress clinging to every curve, makeup smoky and sharp, hair teased and wild. A performer. A seductress. A mask you’d once worn to survive.
But stepping out into the room full of hardened clones, nothing could’ve prepared you for the heat in their eyes.
Hunter looked you up and down, slow and deliberate, his brows furrowed like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
Wrecker’s jaw dropped, cheeks flushed. “Maker, baby…”
Echo stared like he’d short-circuited.
Tech made an odd choking sound behind his datapad.
And then there was Crosshair.
He had a toothpick between his lips, eyes dragging over your legs, slow and dark. “Didn’t know you used to work a stage,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “That explains a lot.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you smirked.
He grinned. “Means now I know why the hell I’ve been dreamin’ about you on your knees.”
Echo made a noise of protest. Wrecker looked like he was about to explode. Hunter didn’t say anything — but his fists were clenched.
You went on stage anyway. Because this was the mission.
You knew how to move. Knew how to keep attention. The intel target was in the VIP booth — you’d been instructed to lure him out, get close, plant a tracker, and distract him while Tech accessed his datapad remotely.
But the Batch? Yeah, they were distracted too.
Crosshair watched from the shadows, his shoulders tense, jaw tight. He was normally smooth, sarcastic — but this? This had him on edge.
Hunter paced by the back exit like a caged animal.
Wrecker glared at every man who so much as breathed in your direction.
Echo kept muttering, “She shouldn’t have to do this,” under his breath.
Tech… he was sweating. You were pretty sure his goggles fogged up.
The moment it all went to hell was when a drunk mercenary tried to grab you mid-performance.
Your eyes had locked with Hunter’s for a split second — a silent signal — when a hand yanked you roughly by the waist, spinning you mid-dance. You tensed immediately, smile faltering.
The guy was laughing, leering, pulling you flush against him.
And Hunter moved like a damn predator.
One second he was at the exit, the next, he was slamming the guy into the stage floor, snarling, “Don’t. Touch. Her.”
You barely had time to react before Crosshair had his rifle out, providing overwatch from the rafters, eyes sharp and deadly.
Echo pulled you behind him protectively.
Wrecker cracked his knuckles with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “You touched the wrong girl, pal.”
Tech looked like he wanted to kill the man — but also couldn’t stop blinking at you in that outfit.
The bar erupted into chaos.
Shots rang out.
You ducked low as the crowd screamed and scattered. Your target made a run for it — but not before Tech tagged his datapad. Crosshair clipped his shoulder with a clean shot. Wrecker handled two mercs trying to flank you.
You moved to help Hunter — but he was down.
Your heart dropped.
You rushed to his side, kneeling beside him. “Hunter!”
He was bleeding — blaster bolt to the shoulder, unfocused eyes still locked on you. “’M fine,” he rasped. “Saw… saw that guy grab you. Should’ve—shit—moved faster.”
You pressed a hand to the wound. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ve had worse hands on me. We’re getting you out.”
“Not while you’re still dressed like that,” he muttered weakly.
Behind you, Crosshair took out another would-be attacker, and growled through clenched teeth, “If anyone else touches her tonight, I’m leaving bodies.”
Echo lifted Hunter over his shoulder while Wrecker covered the retreat. Tech dragged you out by the hand, pulling you through a back hallway while still rattling off data from the merc’s pad.
“You… that performance,” Tech blurted, breathless. “I’ll be reviewing the security footage later. For… mission purposes.”
You just grinned, eyes flicking to where Crosshair covered the rear, rifle smoking.
Back on the ship, patched up and safe, Hunter leaned against the medbay wall, arm in a sling.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.
You leaned in, brushing hair from his face. “Yes, I did. It was the job.”
“Next time,” he growled, “you wear that in our quarters. For us. No one else.”
Wrecker appeared in the doorway. “You gonna do another show, babe? I got credits.”
Echo followed. “Don’t encourage her.”
Tech was already setting up a holoprojector. “I have some… strategic questions about your technique.”
Crosshair just smirked from the shadows, toothpick twitching.
“Next time,” he said, “I’m bringing handcuffs.”
Your smile turned wicked. “Oh? For the targets?”
His smirk widened. “No.”
Hi! Your writing is superb and I love your fic with the reader and Crosshair bantering. Do you think you could do a Crosshair x Fem!reader where she finally gets him flustered and blushing? Maybe a bit of spice at the end if that’s ok? Xx
Crosshair x Fem!Reader
Warnings: No explicit smut, but it’s definitely mature
⸻
Crosshair was used to being in control—of his aim, of his surroundings, of people. He liked it that way.
What he didn’t like was how you always had a retort ready for him, sharp as the toothpick between his teeth.
“Your stalking’s getting obvious, sharpshooter,” you drawled, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as he fell into step beside you. “Didn’t know you liked watching me walk that much.”
“I wasn’t watching you walk,” he muttered.
You raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching my ass. Got it.”
He glanced away, jaw tight, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
Score one.
“You’re lucky I’m into grumpy, brooding types who pretend they don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
“Mmhm,” you said, voice thick with amusement. “That why you always hover when I’m patching up, or growl when I flirt with other clones?”
He stopped walking. You didn’t. Not until he grabbed your wrist, tugging you back with just enough force to make it known he was done playing.
“I don’t growl.”
“Oh, honey,” you smirked, stepping in close. “You practically purr when you’re jealous.”
His eyes narrowed, but his pulse jumped beneath your fingertips. You hadn’t meant to touch his chest—but your hand was there now, and he wasn’t moving.
“Careful,” he warned, voice low.
You tilted your head. “Why? You gonna shoot me?”
“No. But I might do something you’ll like.”
You gave him a slow, wicked grin. “That’s the idea.”
And that’s when it happened—the blush. Subtle at first, just a dusting of pink across those high cheekbones. But you saw it. He knew you saw it.
“You’re blushing,” you whispered, grinning like you’d just landed a perfect headshot.
He scoffed. “It’s hot in here.”
“We’re on Hoth.”
Silence. You let it stretch. Delicious, victorious silence.
“…You gonna keep staring, or—”
You silenced him with a kiss—soft, heated, and just enough tongue to make his breath hitch. His hand gripped your waist in reflex, grounding, needing.
“You gonna let me keep talking like that,” you breathed against his lips, “or are you finally gonna shut me up properly?”
He backed you into the nearest wall faster than you could blink, lips crashing against yours harder this time, heat surging between you both like a live wire. When he pulled back, his voice was husky, feral.
“Be careful what you ask for.”
You smirked, heart hammering. “Right on target.”
The wall was cold at your back, but Crosshair was not.
His body pressed flush to yours, lean and strong, caging you in with one hand braced above your head and the other gripping your hip like you might slip through his fingers if he didn’t anchor you.
“You’ve got a real smart mouth,” he muttered, voice dark and ragged.
“I know,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his blacks. “You like it.”
He growled—a low, almost feral sound—then tilted your chin up with his gloved fingers and kissed you again. This time, there was no holding back. Teeth, tongue, heat. He kissed like he fought—focused, controlled, but with a dangerous edge that said he might snap.
You wanted him to snap.
Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging along the sharp dip of his waist. His abs flexed beneath your touch, and his breath caught.
“What’s wrong, Cross?” you purred, nipping at his jaw. “You usually have so much to say.”
“I’m busy shutting you up,” he rasped.
And oh—he did.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up your thighs, gripping your hips, tugging you closer. You rolled your hips against his and felt just how not unaffected he was. The air between you grew hot, heavy, thick with need.
“You wanna keep teasing,” he whispered in your ear, breath hot against your skin, “I’ll make good on every threat I’ve ever made.”
Your eyes fluttered shut at the promise laced in his tone. He sounded dangerous. And you? You’d never wanted anything more.
“I dare you.”
He chuckled, low and rough, and it did something to you.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“Oh, I do,” you said, curling your fingers in his shirt and pulling him closer. “And I want all of it.”
He kissed you again, slower this time—possessive, claiming, his. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he pulled away, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.
“Later,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over yours. “When we’re not seconds from being interrupted by someone like Wrecker.”
You groaned. “He would walk in right now.”
“Which is why,” he said, voice sharp and wicked, “you’re going to think about this all day until I do something about it.”
He stepped back, leaving you breathless, flushed, and absolutely wrecked.
And the smirk he shot you?
It said he knew exactly what he’d done.
Warnings: Death
⸻
The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.
Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”
You said nothing at first.
“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”
The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.
“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”
You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”
Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.
Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.
“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”
“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”
You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”
That hit a nerve.
The room was heavy. Silent.
Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”
You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”
Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”
⸻
They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.
But they locked you away.
Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.
And your voice.
You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.
And then—
You hummed.
Low. Soft. Familiar.
That lullaby.
“You may not know me because I changed
But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby
When the river takes, the river gives
And mama will search as long as she lives”
You didn’t know anyone was listening.
Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.
He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.
And quietly… he’d sent the link out.
To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.
Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”
They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.
They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.
The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.
Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.
Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.
Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.
She was still fighting for them.
Even now.
⸻
The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.
Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.
He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.
He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.
He was always composed.
But something was wrong.
He hadn’t spoken in three hours.
His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.
But his Jedi General noticed.
General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.
Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:
“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”
Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”
“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”
He stiffened.
She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.
Then—
“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”
Stass turned, curious.
“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”
His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”
Stass blinked. “Your mother?”
He nodded once.
“What happened to her?”
“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”
The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.
He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.
“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”
He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.
“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”
“You miss her,” Stass said gently.
“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”
Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”
He didn’t reply.
But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.
It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.
⸻
The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.
The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.
A quiet chime at the door.
She stopped humming.
The door hissed open.
Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.
She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.
“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”
“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”
He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”
The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”
“I came to offer truth,” he said.
She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”
“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”
Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.
“They’re still my little boys.”
Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”
He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.
“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”
She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.
“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.
“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”
She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”
He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”
As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.
“Windu…”
He looked back.
“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”
He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
⸻
The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.
He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.
“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.
Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”
A pause.
“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.
“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”
Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.
“She means something to you.”
“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”
“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.
“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”
Another pause.
“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”
“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”
There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.
“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”
“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”
Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”
Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”
He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.
Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”
With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.
⸻
The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.
Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.
Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.
“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.
“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.
Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”
Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”
Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.
“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”
“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”
The Jedi waited, giving him space.
Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”
Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”
“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”
Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”
“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”
Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”
“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”
That silence hit hard between them.
“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”
Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”
Cody looked at him, surprised.
Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”
Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”
Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”
The silence stretched.
“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”
“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”
Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”
Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”
Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”
⸻
The storm of war was always preceded by silence.
Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.
Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.
But instead…
He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.
And then his comm buzzed.
A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.
EXECUTE ORDER 66.
His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.
The message repeated. Execute Order 66.
Cody didn’t move.
The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”
He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”
Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:
“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”
Cody clenched his fists.
“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”
Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.
His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.
Seconds ticked by.
The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.
He pressed the detonator.
The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.
And Cody’s heart shattered.
He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.
⸻
In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.
Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.
She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.
⸻
Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.
She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.
And then she stopped feeling them.
Her boys.
One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.
She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.
Gone.
The humming in her throat died.
⸻
The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.
She stood, slow and cautious.
The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.
Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.
Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.
“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”
She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”
“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”
Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”
“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”
Fox flinched.
He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.
She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”
His eyes flickered.
“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”
Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.
“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”
Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”
Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”
Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”
Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.
“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”
Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.
Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”
The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.
She dropped to her knees, hollow.
She had trained them to survive.
She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.
⸻
There were whispers again.
But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.
No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.
She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.
She was dying.
Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.
She wouldn’t allow it any longer.
She struck at twilight.
No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.
Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.
When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.
She threw the door open, weapons drawn—
Only to find the air grow colder.
And him standing there.
A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.
She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.
“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.
She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”
She attacked.
It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.
She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.
But she didn’t stop.
She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.
And then—nothing.
The red blade pierced through her chest.
She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.
Vader held her there, impaled, silent.
“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”
“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.
⸻
News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.
They all heard it.
Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.
He didn’t cry.
But he didn’t speak for days.
Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.
Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.
He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.
And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.
And Rex.
Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.
He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.
He didn’t move for hours.
He just let it play.
Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.
Their buir… was gone.
But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Warnings: Death
⸻
The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.
Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.
You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.
Another shipment hijacked.
Another uprising quelled—barely.
Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.
When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.
“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”
You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”
“But I might,” she admitted.
You remained still, letting the quiet settle.
“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”
Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”
“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”
“You sound like my enemies.”
You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”
Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”
“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”
For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.
“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”
“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”
A long silence. Then, in a whisper:
“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”
You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.
“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”
She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.
You left her there.
⸻
The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.
You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.
They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.
It was happening again.
Only this time, you stood beside the throne.
⸻
Sundari had never been louder.
Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.
You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.
Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.
“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”
Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”
“You’re smart enough to know better.”
She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”
Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.
“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”
You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”
“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”
“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”
That was the final push.
Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.
“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.
You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.
“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”
The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.
He faltered.
And then—they stepped out of the shadows.
Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.
When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.
Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.
You turned away.
But it wasn’t over.
Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.
Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.
He walked past you.
“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.
Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”
Maul ignited his saber.
He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.
You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.
The Death Watch leader crumpled.
The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Some kneeled. Others hesitated.
Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.
“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”
Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.
You remained.
You didn’t run.
Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.
He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.
“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”
He tilted his head.
“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”
Or…
“Will you die with your honor?”
“Kill me”
Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.
The cell was dark.
Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.
Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.
“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.
You looked over, slowly.
“For now.”
There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.
“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.
You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”
Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”
You smiled too. “Especially after those.”
She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”
You looked her in the eye.
“Not if I can stop it.”
⸻
They dragged you both from your cell.
Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.
And then he arrived.
Kenobi.
Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.
You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.
The confrontation played out as in the holos.
Maul relished every second.
Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.
And then—like a blade through your own chest—
Maul killed her.
Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.
You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.
“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”
He escaped—barely.
And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.
⸻
The city was choking under red skies.
Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.
You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.
A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.
Darth Sidious.
His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.
“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”
You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”
Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.
“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”
“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”
There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.
“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”
⸻
Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.
Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.
Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.
Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”
Sidious said nothing.
Then he struck.
The throne room erupted in chaos.
Lightsabers screamed.
Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.
You remembered your old training.
You remembered the cadets.
You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.
You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.
He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.
⸻
Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.
You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.
“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”
Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.
“No.”
You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”
“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”
You trembled, fists clenched.
“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”
You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.
And you stepped back.
“I did this for Mandalore.”
He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”
⸻
Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.
You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.
For your cadets.
For Satine.
For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.
You had survived again.
But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.
She was vengeance.
And she had only just begun.
⸻
You tried to vanish.
From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.
But you knew it wouldn’t last.
⸻
The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.
Sidious.
“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”
You said nothing.
“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”
You turned off the holoprojector.
Another message followed. And another. Then…
A warning.
“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”
That was it. The breaking point.
⸻
The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.
No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.
Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.
In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.
Not after he threatened them.
He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.
“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”
“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”
You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.
Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.
You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.
Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.
You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.
Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.
You wouldn’t get another shot.
The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.
You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—
A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.
Fox.
You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…
But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.
You pressed on.
You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.
The Chancellor was already there.
He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.
He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”
Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”
He smiled.
“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”
Your finger squeezed the trigger.
But then—
Ignited sabers.
The Jedi were already there. Three of them.
Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.
They had sensed your intent.
You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.
But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.
Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.
As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.
He leaned in close.
“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”
⸻
Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.
Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.
Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.
He stared at you a long time.
“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”
You didn’t speak.
He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.
“…Why?”
You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.
“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”
Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”
“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”
Fox looked down.
For a long moment, the room was silent.
Then quietly, almost brokenly:
“…You shouldn’t have come here.”
You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
⸻
The fires in the Kalevalan mountains burned low, the cold wind howling through the high passes. The Death Watch camp was bustling—more recruits, more stolen weapons, more rumors.
And then, the arrival.
Obi-Wan Kenobi and Duchess Satine Kryze.
Uninvited.
You stood with Vizsla on the high ridge as he drew the blade from his hip. The Darksaber hissed to life like a living flame—black as night, glowing at the edges like the promise of death.
The effect on the Mandalorians below was instant: awe, devotion, fevered whispers.
But your stomach twisted.
“This isn’t the way,” you muttered under your breath.
Vizsla grinned, eyes gleaming. “It’s our way now.”
You didn’t answer. Not yet.
When Kenobi and Satine confronted Vizsla, words were exchanged. Accusations. Pleas.
Then lightsabers.
Vizsla went for Kenobi—sloppy, showy. It was never about skill with him. It was about spectacle.
You intervened. Not to protect Vizsla. But to test Kenobi. To understand.
Your beskad clashed against his blade, sparks flying. He was strong, but not unkind. Precise.
“You trained the clone commanders,” he said mid-duel, surprised. “You’re her.”
You didn’t answer. Only pushed him harder.
He deflected and stepped back, breathing heavy. “They still speak of you.”
Your guard faltered. Just a beat. But he saw it.
“Cody is my Commander.”
You let them go. Kenobi and Satine escaped into the mountains under cover of night. Vizsla fumed. Called it weakness. Called you soft.
You didn’t respond.
But later, in secret, others came to you—Death Watch members uneasy with the fanaticism growing in Vizsla’s wake. You weren’t the only one with doubts.
You weren’t alone.
Not yet.
⸻
“General?” Cody asked, voice low.
Obi-Wan glanced up from the datapad, still damp from the rain on Kamino. The war had kept them moving—campaign to campaign—but this conversation had waited long enough.
“What happened on Kalevala,” Cody said. “You recognized someone.”
Obi-Wan studied him a moment, then nodded. “Yes.”
Cody looked down, exhaling.
“I think…” Kenobi paused, unsure how to soften the blow. “I think it was your buir.”
Cody’s breath hitched. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. For a long moment, he said nothing.
“I didn’t believe it at first,” Kenobi went on gently. “But her fighting style. Her presence. It was unmistakable.”
Cody sat on the crate beside him, helmet in his lap. “She used to sing to us,” he said quietly. “Used to say we’d be legends.”
Obi-Wan’s voice softened. “I don’t think she’s lost. Not entirely.”
“She joined the Death Watch.”
“She didn’t kill me when she could have.”
Cody blinked hard. “She always said if you had to fight… you fight for something worth dying for. Maybe she thinks she’s doing that.”
Obi-Wan nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s trying to protect something she already lost.”
Later That Night
Cody stood outside his quarters, datapad in hand. He stared at the encrypted channel. No new messages. Nothing in months.
But still… he keyed in a short phrase.
Just two words.
Still there?
He sent it.
And waited.
The barracks were quiet tonight.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that only happened right before everything changed.
Cody sat on the edge of his bunk, polishing his helmet even though it was already spotless. The other troopers in his unit were mostly asleep, some murmuring in dreams, others shifting restlessly. Outside, thunder rolled low across the skies.
And then—
Ping.
His datapad lit up.
An encrypted file.
No message. No words. No source.
He stared at it.
He knew that signature. Knew the rhythm of its encryption—she’d taught it to them. Said it was how Mandalorians passed messages in the old days. Heartbeats in code. A kind of song.
And now…
A file.
Cody clicked play.
And the room was filled with a voice from his childhood.
“Do you still dream? Do you, do you sleep still?
I fill my pockets full of stones and sink
Thе river will flow, and the sun will shine 'cause
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
Her voice was soft, low, carrying that rough edge it always had—like wind against beskar. He remembered hearing it in the cadet bunks, late at night, when the storms outside made even the toughest of them curl tighter under their blankets. He remembered her kneeling beside the youngest, brushing a hand over their short buzzed hair, humming softly.
He remembered how it made them feel safe. Like they were home.
And now, years later, on the edge of the Clone Wars…
He was hearing it again.
“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream
The river murdered you and now it takes me
Dream, my baby
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
He blinked, chest tight.
Cody didn’t cry. Not in front of his men. Not in front of anyone.
But tonight, he pressed the datapad to his chest and closed his eyes.
You okay, sir?”
It was Waxer, leaning in from his bunk. Boil sat up too, eyes curious.
Cody cleared his throat. “Fine.”
Boil tilted his head. “Was that…?”
Cody nodded once. “Yeah.”
The others didn’t press. But slowly, one by one, troopers across the barracks stirred. Listening.
No one spoke.
They just let her voice fill the room.
⸻
On Mandalore’s moon, the woman who had sent the file stood beneath the stars.
Helmet tucked under her arm.
She watched the horizon and murmured to herself, “Fight smart. Fight together. And come back.”
She would never send them words.
They already knew them.
But she could still sing them to sleep.
⸻
The fire crackled low in the mouth of the cave, throwing shadows across the jagged stone walls. Outside, the frost of the moon’s night crept in, but inside, the warmth of the flames and the quiet hum of her voice kept it at bay.
She sat cross-legged by the fire, her helmet resting beside her, eyes unfocused as she sang under her breath. The melody was soft, familiar, drifting like smoke.
Behind her, a few Death Watch recruits murmured amongst themselves, throwing glances her way, unsure of what to make of the rare lullaby from a warrior like her.
One of them approached. Young. Sharp-eyed. Barely out of adolescence, with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.
“Buir,” he said cautiously, the word catching awkwardly in his throat. “That song. You sing it a lot.”
She didn’t look at him. Not right away. She just nodded, still staring into the flames.
“Who was it for?” he asked. “Someone on Mandalore?”
Her voice came low, worn. “No.”
The recruit waited. He didn’t sit, but he didn’t leave either. After a moment, she gestured for him to join her by the fire. He sat slowly, hands resting on his knees, trying to act like he wasn’t still scared of her.
She let the silence sit a little longer before she answered.
“I trained soldiers once. Before the war broke out. Children, really. Grown in tubes, bred for battle. They were mine to shape… my responsibility.”
“You mean the clones?” he asked, surprised. “The clones?”
She nodded slowly.
“They were… good boys,” she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Too good for what the galaxy would ask of them.”
“You cared about them,” the recruit said, almost like it was an accusation.
“I still do,” she replied without hesitation.
He looked at her—this woman in weathered beskar who fought harder than anyone in Death Watch, who’d left behind her name and her history to walk the path of insurgency. The woman who could break bones without blinking… and yet sang lullabies to shadows.
“They’re fighting for the Republic now,” he said. “Isn’t that… the enemy?”
She looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“I didn’t train enemies,” she said. “I trained survivors. Sons. And no matter where they are, or who they fight for, they are mine.”
The recruit shifted uncomfortably.
“I thought you joined Death Watch to protect Mandalore,” he said. “To fight the pacifists, the weakness Satine brought.”
“I did,” she said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the people I left behind. Sometimes war splits you down the middle. Sometimes you fight with one half of your soul… while mourning with the other.”
The fire crackled between them.
After a long pause, the recruit finally asked, “Do you think they remember you?”
She smiled, just a little.
“I hope they remember the song.”
⸻
The air on Mandalore was thin and sterile—peaceful in a way that felt almost unnatural.
Walking through Sundari’s wide, shining corridors in full armor again, the reader felt the stares of pacifist advisors, senators, and citizens alike. A Mandalorian warrior hadn’t walked these halls in years. Not since they were exiled—branded relics of a bloody past the new government had tried to bury.
She kept walking.
Each step echoed with restraint, but not regret.
When she reached the palace gates, the guards blocked her path, hands twitching toward the stun batons at their sides.
“I seek audience with the Duchess Satine,” she said, voice even. “Tell her an old warrior has come home to bend the knee.”
The guards exchanged skeptical glances, but one of them relayed the message through their comms. A beat passed. Then another.
Then: “The Duchess will see you.”
Satine Kryze sat tall on her throne, draped in royal silks, her expression unreadable.
The reader approached slowly, helmet in hand, her armor still painted in the battle-worn shades of Death Watch—though the sigil had been scorched off.
Satine’s eyes narrowed. “You walk into my court bearing the same steel that once stood with Vizsla and his radicals. Why should I hear a word from your mouth?”
The reader dropped to one knee.
Not in submission.
In promise.
“I left them.”
Satine arched a brow. “And I’m meant to believe that?”
“You’ve heard what Vizsla plans. He wields the Darksaber like a hammer, believing Mandalore’s strength is only measured in fire and conquest.” Her voice was low but sure. “But true strength is not brutality. It’s knowing when not to strike. It’s survival. Legacy.”
Satine rose from her throne slowly. “That sounds more like my philosophy than that of a sworn Mandalorian.”
The reader’s head lifted.
“I am sworn to the Creed,” she said. “The whole Creed. Not just the warmongering chants of the fallen, but the heart of it—the protection of our people. The survival of our world. That is the way.”
Satine studied her.
Something in her eyes softened.
“You pledge yourself to me?”
“I pledge myself to Mandalore,” the reader answered. “And right now… you are the only one keeping her heart beating.”
A long pause.
Then Satine stepped forward, extended a hand.
“Then come,” she said. “If you would stand for peace, walk beside me. I leave for Coruscant in the morning.”
⸻
The duchess’s starcruiser hummed steadily through hyperspace, bound for Coruscant. Peace had no place in the stars anymore—pirates, bounty hunters, Separatist saboteurs—any one of them could strike at any time. Satine’s diplomatic voyage needed more than security.
It needed Jedi.
And hidden among the entourage was a shadow in Beskar.
You.
You stood silently behind the duchess, armor painted anew—neutral tones, a far cry from your old Death Watch markings. Most on board didn’t recognize you, especially with the helmet on. But Obi-Wan had looked twice when he boarded. Said nothing. Just gave you a subtle nod—acknowledgement… and warning.
You were a guest here.
But you were also something dangerous.
t started when the droid attacked. The assassin model, slinking through the ventilation shafts like a ghost.
The ship rocked as explosions tore through the hull—one hit dangerously close to the engines. Screams echoed down the halls.
As the Jedi and clone troopers mobilized, you were already moving, your beskad drawn from your hip in a practiced motion. The moment you cut through the access panel and leapt into the ducts after the droid, Obi-Wan barked, “She’s with us—don’t stop her!”
You burst from the duct with a grunt, landing in a crouch between clone troopers and the assassin droid that had been pinning them down. In one quick move, you flipped the beskad in your hand and hurled it—metal slicing through the droid’s neck and sending sparks flying.
The clones blinked, surprised.
Then one of them spoke, stunned.
“…Buir?”
Your eyes met his.
Cody.
He looked older now. Sharper. War-worn. But the way he said that word—the softness beneath the gravel in his voice—stopped your heart for a beat.
“Cody,” you breathed.
Before you could say more, another explosion rocked the ship and the Jedi shouted orders. You both surged back into motion, fighting side by side as if no time had passed. Rex appeared at your flank, helmet on but unmistakable.
“Never thought I’d see you again,” he said through the comms.
“You look taller,” you shot back.
“Still can’t outshoot me,” he quipped.
“Let’s test that once we survive this.”
Later, when the droid was destroyed and the ship stabilized, you stood with your back against the durasteel wall, helmet off, sweat dripping down your brow.
Cody approached slowly. His armor was scraped, singed.
He stood in front of you silently.
“You left,” he said.
You nodded. “I had to. It wasn’t safe. Not with the Kaminoans growing colder… not with what was coming.”
His jaw clenched. But then he exhaled slowly, nodding.
“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s all that matters.”
A pause.
“You were right, you know,” he added quietly. “We weren’t ready for the galaxy. But we survived. Because of what you gave us.”
You looked at him—really looked at him—and placed your hand on his chest plate.
“I’m proud of you, Cody. All of you.”
Rex joined, helmet tucked under one arm, a crooked grin on his face. “Buir’s gonna make us get all sappy, huh?”
“I’ll arm-wrestle you to shut you up,” you smirked.
They laughed.
For the first time in years.
⸻
Coruscant never changed.
Even from orbit, it looked like a city swallowing itself—buildings stacked on buildings, lights never fading, shadows never still. You stood by the Duchess’s side as her diplomatic cruiser descended toward the Senate landing pad, flanked by Jedi, Senators, and clone guards, all navigating the choreography of politics and danger.
The moment your boots hit the durasteel of the Senate rotunda, you felt it—that tingle down the back of your neck.
You weren’t welcome here.
But you didn’t need to be.
You were here for Mandalore.
And for them.
As Duchess Satine prepared to speak, you fell back slightly—watching her take the grand platform before the Senate assembly, her calm, steady voice echoing through the chamber. She spoke of peace. Of neutrality. Of independence.
The words stirred an old ache in you—half pride, half grief. She was strong in her own way. You respected that now.
But while the chamber listened, your eyes scanned.
And locked on him.
Standing at attention near the perimeter, crimson armor gleaming under the Senate lights, was Marshal Commander Fox. He hadn’t seen you yet. Too focused, too professional. But you approached him like a ghost walking out of the past.
“Still standing tall, I see,” you said, voice low enough not to draw attention.
Fox turned, his sharp gaze meeting yours—and then widening. “No kriffing way.”
You smirked.
He stared, then let out a small huff of disbelief. “You vanish for years and that’s the first thing you say?”
“You didn’t need me anymore,” you said. “You were always going to be something.”
Fox’s jaw tightened, emotion flickering. “We needed you more than you think.”
“Marshal Commander,” you said, mock-formal. “Look at you. I leave for a couple years, and you’re babysitting Senators now. Impressive.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled. “I thought I was hallucinating. You’re supposed to be dead, or exiled, or something dramatic.”
“Only in spirit,” you replied. “Congratulations, Fox. You earned that armor.”
He hesitated.
Then gave you a quiet nod. “It’s not the same without you.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” you said softly. “You were always meant to outgrow me.”
He looked away for a second, then back, voice lower. “The others talk about you sometimes. Cody. Rex. Bly. Even Wolffe, and that man doesn’t talk about anyone.”
“Tell them I remember every one of them.”
“You’ll tell them yourself,” he said, then added, almost too quickly, “Right?”
You didn’t answer. Just touched his shoulder lightly. “You did good, Fox. Better than good. You lead now. That means you carry the burden… but you also get to set the tone. The next generation of vode? They’re watching you.”
He blinked a few times. “You always were the only one who said things like that.”
“And meant it,” you added.
He nodded, slower this time. “It’s good to see you. You look… older.”
You smirked. “Try keeping your head above water in a sea of Vizsla fanatics and tell me how fresh you look after.”
“Fair.”
⸻
The danger came in silence.
You and the Duchess had returned to the Senate landing platform, flanked by Jedi and clone escort. The diplomatic skyspeeder waited, gleaming in the light.
The moment Satine stepped into the speeder, a faint whine filled the air—subtle, but wrong.
Your instincts screamed.
“Don’t start the engine!” you barked, lunging forward—too late.
The speeder blasted off—far too fast, veering wildly.
“Something’s wrong with the repulsors!” Anakin shouted. “The nav systems are locked!”
You were already sprinting toward a nearby speeder bike, Obi-Wan mounting another. “We have to catch her!”
Fox was shouting into his comms, coordinating pursuit and clearance through air lanes.
You and Obi-Wan flew through the sky, weaving around towers as Satine’s speeder dipped and jolted erratically.
Your voice cut through the comms, “Hold her steady, I’m going in.”
Obi-Wan gaped. “You’ll crash!”
“Yeah. Probably.”
You leapt from the bike.
Time slowed.
Your gauntlet mag-grip latched onto the spiraling speeder as you crashed hard against the hull. Satine inside looked up, startled.
You smashed the manual override, pried open the control panel, and yanked the sabotage node free—sparks flew, and the speeder jerked before leveling out.
By the time it landed, your shoulder was dislocated and you were covered in soot.
Later, in the quiet aftermath, you sat against a stone column inside the Senate’s private halls, shoulder hastily reset, your armor scorched. Satine was alive, thanks to you. Obi-Wan sat on the edge of a bench nearby, breathing slow and deep.
“She saved you,” he told Satine softly.
“She tends to do that,” Satine said with a tired smile.
You looked up at him, brows raised. “Surprised?”
He shook his head. “Not at all.”
Fox approached quietly, handing you a fresh water flask.
“You didn’t have to jump out of a speeder,” he muttered.
You took a long drink. “Didn’t want you to miss out on another tragedy.”
He rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall beside you. “You’re the worst role model, you know that?”
You nudged his shin with your boot. “Yet somehow, you turned out alright.”
He gave you a rare smile. “Welcome home. At least for now.”
⸻
The speeder explosion had rattled the city, but Satine had emerged alive. Shaken, but composed.
You hadn’t left her side once.
Now, with the Senate’s mess behind her—for now—Satine prepared to return to Mandalore. You stood outside the diplomatic chambers, speaking softly with Fox while waiting for her departure documents to be signed. That’s when he said it:
“They’re here. Wolffe and Bacara. I told them you were on-planet.”
Your breath caught.
“I wasn’t sure if I should have, but—”
“No,” you said quickly. “Thank you.”
He didn’t press further. He just gave you a nod and walked off to oversee the Senate Guard rotation.
You didn’t wait.
⸻
The military side of Coruscant always had a different air—colder, louder, filled with tension that clung to the skin like storm-wet armor.
You found them in a quiet corridor beside their departing ship. Wolffe leaned against a crate, arms crossed, helmet at his side, expression unreadable as ever. Bacara sat on a lower bench, hunched, hands folded between his knees.
They looked up at the same time.
It took less than a heartbeat before Bacara stood and crossed the space to you.
“Buir.”
You wrapped your arms around him before he could finish exhaling the word. It was like hugging a rock—solid and unyielding—but you felt the slight tremble in his breath. That was enough.
“You’ve grown,” you said.
“You say that every time.”
“Because you always do.”
Wolffe approached more cautiously, arms still crossed, but the faint flicker of softness in his expression gave him away.
“You didn’t think to send a message?” he asked.
“I couldn’t,” you said honestly. “Too much would’ve come with it. You boys had to become who you’re meant to be without me hovering.”
“We were better with you hovering,” Bacara muttered.
Wolffe gave a grunt. “I thought you were dead, for a while.”
“I know,” you said, quieter. “That was the idea, at first.”
Wolffe stepped forward, finally breaking that last bit of space between you. His brow was tense, eyes shadowed.
“We talked about you. Even now. When things get bad.”
“You remember the lullaby?” you asked.
Bacara scoffed. “You think we’d forget?”
You grinned.
“Where are you headed?” Bacara asked, nodding to your sidearm and armor, half-concealed beneath a diplomatic cloak.
“Back to Mandalore. With the Duchess.”
Wolffe gave you a long, searching look. “Back with the pacifists?”
“No,” you said. “Not as one of them. As her sword. Her shield. She’s not perfect—but her fight is worth something. And if Mandalore’s going to survive this war, it’ll need more than weapons. It’ll need balance.”
Wolffe’s jaw ticked. “And if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’d rather die standing beside hope than kneeling beside zealotry.”
Bacara snorted. “Still stubborn.”
“Still your buir.”
You embraced them both, tighter this time.
“I’m proud of you,” you whispered.
They didn’t say anything. They didn’t have to.
As you turned to leave, your boots echoing against the durasteel floor, you let your voice rise—soft and familiar.
The lullaby.
Altamaha-Ha.
A haunting thread of melody that followed them into war before.
Now, it lingered behind you like a ghost in the mist.
Wolffe didn’t look away. Bacara closed his eyes.
They would carry that sound into every battle.
Just like they carried you.
⸻
The return to Mandalore was quiet. Satine had dismissed her guards—except for you. You stood at her side now, not as a threat, not as a rebel, not as a Death Watch traitor, but as a Mandalorian, reborn in purpose.
It hadn’t been easy convincing the Council to allow it. The Duchess had vouched for you, which meant more than words. But still, whispers followed in your wake. Once a warrior, always a weapon. You heard them. You ignored them.
Inside the domed city, pacifism still ruled. A beautiful, cold kind of peace. No blades. No armor. No fire.
You wore your beskar anyway.
“You’re unsettling them,” Satine said quietly beside you, overlooking the city from the palace balcony.
“I’m protecting them.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“They will, when someone decides to test your boundaries again.”
She looked at you, eyes soft but steeled. “You’re still so steeped in it. War. Blood. Even your presence is a threat to them.”
“I’m not a threat to you, Satine.”
“No,” she said, voice nearly a whisper. “Not to me.”
A pause. Her hand rested gently against the railing. “You could have joined Vizsla. His path would’ve made more sense for someone like you.”
“I did,” you admitted. “But sense doesn’t mean truth. His war is born of pride. Yours… is born of hope. That’s harder. But stronger.”
She turned toward you. “You really believe that?”
You nodded once. “Only the strongest shall rule Mandalore. And I’ve fought in enough wars to know that strength is more than the blade you carry. It’s knowing when to sheathe it.”
A long silence settled between you. She looked away, clearly fighting some retort, but in the end… she let it go.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Satine said softly.
You didn’t smile, but your silence meant everything.
⸻
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
⸻
The lights didn’t feel as warm.
Maybe they never had been.
But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.
Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.
No singing. No softness.
No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.
They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.
No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”
Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.
He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.
Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.
Rex stopped smiling as much.
Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.
Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.
Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.
Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.
Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.
The nights were the worst.
No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.
Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.
He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.
“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”
That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.
“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”
“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.
Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”
“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”
“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.
They all looked at him.
“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”
“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”
There was silence for a long time.
Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.
He didn’t send a message.
He just played the recording.
A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.
The boys sat. Still. Silent.
Listening.
⸻
The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.
But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.
Your boys weren’t boys anymore.
They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.
The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.
Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.
Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.
Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.
Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.
Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.
They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.
Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.
He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.
And to make her proud.
But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.
⸻
Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.
Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.
They didn’t say goodbye.
But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.
Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.
And then they were gone.
She wasn’t there to see them off.
Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.
Wasn’t there to call them her boys.
But they carried her with them anyway.
In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.
They were ready.
She’d made sure of that.
⸻
The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.
She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.
Or… she used to.
Now, the silence grated.
The galaxy was changing again.
And this time, she wasn’t in it.
Not yet.
The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.
She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.
He came alone.
Pre Vizsla.
Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.
“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.
“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.
He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”
She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”
“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”
She said nothing.
“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”
“They are worth something.”
Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”
She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”
“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”
He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.
⸻
She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.
Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.
Not since her boys.
The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.
No messages. No voices. No lullabies.
She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.
Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.
Was Mandalore dying?
Was she wrong to have left?
She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.
She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.
Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”
But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.
At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.
Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.
She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.
“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.
“You’re still here,” he replied.
“I’m here for Mandalore.”
“Then we want the same thing.”
“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”
“You’ll kill me?”
“I’ll bury you.”
⸻
Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.
A soft blinking light glowed.
Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.
A message was sent.
No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.
She would know what it meant.
They were alive.
They were fighting.
And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.
⸻
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |
Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero
Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders
A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.
⸻
Arrival
Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.
You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.
“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”
He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”
You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.
“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”
You scowled. “And you?”
Jango didn’t answer.
You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.
⸻
Training the Future Commanders
They were just boys.
Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.
“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.
“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”
At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.
But over time, that changed.
You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.
They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.
And somewhere along the line, the title changed.
“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.
You froze.
“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”
But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”
After that, the name stuck.
⸻
The Way You Loved Them
You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.
“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”
They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.
⸻
Singing in the Dark
Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.
You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.
“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream
Let the river carry you back to me
Dream, my baby, 'cause
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.
Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.
You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.
And after that, you kept doing it.
⸻
The Warning
“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”
“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”
“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”
You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”
He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.
⸻
Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.
You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.
And they were brothers. Every one of them.
“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.
“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.
The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.
“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”
“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”
You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.
The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.
The laughter died.
You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.
“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”
You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”
“They are not—”
“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”
The Kaminoan backed away.
You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.
“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”
He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”
“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”
The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.
You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.
Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.
He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.
⸻
You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.
You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.
You never said why, but they trusted you.
And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.
“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”
“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.
“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”
Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”
Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”
“I will end you, rookie.”
“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”
Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.
“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.
Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.
⸻
When You Sang
Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.
The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.
You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.
“Last night under bright strange stars
We left behind the men that caged you and me
Runnin' toward a promise land
Mama will be there in the mornin'”
They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.
You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.
But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.
⸻
The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.
When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.
And they didn’t like complications.
⸻
The Meeting
You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.
“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”
“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.
“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”
Your fists curled at your sides.
“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”
You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”
There was a pause, then:
“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”
You didn’t respond.
You simply turned and walked out.
⸻
He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.
They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.
Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”
“They’re getting better,” you corrected.
He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”
You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”
A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”
You shrugged. “Let them.”
“You’re pissing them off.”
You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”
“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.
“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”
Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”
You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.
You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”
“They’ll make you.”
“Not until they’re ready.”
Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”
You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”
⸻
That night, you sang again.
You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.
You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.
“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land
Be a mouse and do not use your voice
River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause
Mama will be there in thе mornin'”
Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”
You didn’t turn to see who said it.
You just kept singing.
⸻
They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.
Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”
No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.
“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.
Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”
You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”
“You’ve served your purpose.”
You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”
“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”
You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”
“You are dismissed.”
⸻
You packed slowly.
Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.
You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.
You always took your armor.
You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.
“Can I come in?”
It was Cody.
You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”
He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.
“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”
“Because I care too much,” you said simply.
Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.
“What happens to us now?”
You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.
“Are we ready?” he asked.
You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.
“No,” you said. “You’re not.”
That hit him harder than comfort might have.
“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”
Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”
You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”
His eyes flicked to you in surprise.
You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”
He looked down. “What was your war like?”
You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.
“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”
Cody frowned. “Banished?”
You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”
“That’s not fair.”
“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”
He was silent, digesting it.
Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”
Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”
You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”
You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.
⸻
You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.
Silent.
Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.
You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.
“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”
You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.
“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”
You left without turning back.
Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.
Part 2
⸻
She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.
They weren’t supposed to fall for her.
She wasn’t supposed to leave.
But they did. And she did.
Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.
⸻
Wolffe was gone.
Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.
She told herself it didn’t sting.
Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.
This time, it was him.
Fox.
She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.
“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”
No answer.
Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.
She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”
Fox didn’t move.
“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”
Still nothing.
She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”
That one hit.
His shoulders shifted. Just enough.
“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”
“You walked away.”
“I had to.”
“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”
He stepped closer to the shield.
“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”
She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.
“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”
“And you hate her now?”
“No,” he said, almost too quiet.
“I wish I did.”
The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.
Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Fox’s helmet snapped up.
“You planning something?” he demanded.
She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”
An explosion rocked the building.
Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.
The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.
She moved first.
Elbow. Throat. Disarm.
Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.
They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.
He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”
She headbutted him. “Too late.”
He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.
He caught her wrist. “You left us.”
She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”
That cracked him.
She tackled him.
They hit the floor hard.
His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.
And for a heartbeat—
There he was.
Fox.
Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.
He flipped her. Pinned her down.
“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”
“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”
Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—
And paused.
Just for a second.
He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.
So she closed her fist.
And knocked him out cold.
⸻
She ran.
Again.
Bleeding. Gasping. Free.
But not the same.
Not anymore.
Because this time, she left something behind.
And it wasn’t just her past.
It was him.
⸻
(Flashback - Kamino)
It was raining.
Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.
She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.
She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.
She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.
Good.
But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.
She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.
She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”
No one spoke.
She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”
Eyes tracked her, alert.
“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”
A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.
“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”
She paused.
“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”
“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”
The silence was sharp. But the room listened.
The first week nearly broke them.
She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.
So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.
“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”
A pause.
“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”
CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.
“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”
He quirked a brow.
“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”
He smirked.
“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”
“Bly?” he echoed.
“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”
He went quiet.
“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”
That got his attention.
“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”
“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”
His stare didn’t break.
She nodded to herself.
Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.
This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.
“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”
He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.
“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”
Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.
Good.
And finally—
CT-3636.
She exhaled. Quiet.
“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”
He arched a brow.
“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”
Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.
She stepped back and looked at them all.
“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”
She didn’t say why she chose those names.
But Fox knew.
And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.
⸻
That night, neither of them slept.
Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.
Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.
It wasn’t just what she called them.
It was how she saw them.
Not clones.
Not numbers.
Men.
And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:
They would have followed her anywhere.
⸻
“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”
Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.
He didn’t need to.
He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.
Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.
He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.
“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”
“A liability,” Fox snapped.
A pause.
Then Thorn said, “So are you.”
She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.
Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.
“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.
Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.
She was running out of time.
So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.
She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:
“You still owe me.”
⸻
Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.
He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.
When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.
“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.
He didn’t answer.
“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”
That hit something.
He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.
“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”
Fox raised his blaster.
“I’m not that man anymore.”
“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.
Then she charged him.
They hit the ground hard.
She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.
Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.
It was personal.
Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.
She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.
“Stay down,” he growled.
But she was already back on her feet, staggering.
“You first.”
She lunged. He met her.
For one second, he nearly won.
And then—
The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.
A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.
Fox’s head snapped up.
From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.
From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”
She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.
He caught her foot—just for a second.
Their eyes locked.
She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”
Fox’s grip slipped.
She vanished into the belly of the ship.
The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.
Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.
Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:
“You get her?”
Fox didn’t answer.
He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:
“Next time.”
⸻
The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.
She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.
“You look like shab.”
She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”
Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.
“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”
“I know,” she said, quiet.
Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”
She ignored him.
Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”
After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”
She didn’t answer.
“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”
That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.
“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”
He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”
She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.
“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”
He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”
She smirked. “Sentimental.”
He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”
She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”
“You don’t have to run forever.”
“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”
And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.
⸻
Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.
Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.
“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.
“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.
“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”
Plo regarded them both for a long moment.
“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”
Wolffe’s jaw tightened.
Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”
“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”
Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.
“She made her choice,” he said flatly.
“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”
Wolffe didn’t respond.
“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”
Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”
“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”
Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”
“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”
Silence.
Then Wolffe slowly nodded.
“Then I’ll bring her in.”
Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.
“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”
⸻
The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.
Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.
Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”
Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”
“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.
Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”
“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.
Wolffe didn’t respond.
He just kept moving.
They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.
She knew they were coming.
She was waiting.
⸻
They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.
Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.
She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.
“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”
Wolffe charged her without a word.
Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.
But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.
She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.
But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.
They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.
Then came him.
The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.
“Step down,” Plo said.
She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”
“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”
“I was never yours.”
“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”
They fought.
The air crackled.
She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.
He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.
“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”
She lunged. “You don’t know me.”
“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”
“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”
He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.
“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.
She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.
“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”
Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.
“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”
That made Plo pause.
“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”
The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.
Plo stared at her for a long moment.
Then, slowly—he stepped back.
Released the Force.
“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”
She blinked.
“You’re… letting me go?”
“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”
Wolffe took a step forward.
Plo stopped him with a look.
“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”
Wolffe’s fists clenched.
She didn’t wait.
She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.
This time, no one followed.
Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era
⸻
They called her a terrorist now.
Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.
But those days were ash.
The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.
But not you.
You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.
You fought.
A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.
Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.
You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.
They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:
HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.
And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.
But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.
“Life likes to blow the cold wind…
Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”
⸻
The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.
Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.
Because he was there.
Commander Cody.
You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.
It hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.
He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.
And just like that, time rewound.
Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”
His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”
But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.
Now?
He raised his blaster rifle.
You didn’t move.
He didn’t shoot.
The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.
“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.
You took one slow step forward.
“Cody,” you said, voice low.
His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.
“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.
“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”
He said nothing.
For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.
Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.
He didn’t even look back.
⸻
Weeks passed.
You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.
But still… something gnawed at you.
The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.
You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.
Just in case.
And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…
“—Commander Cody. AWOL.
Deserted post.
Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.
Do not engage without support.
Consider highly dangerous.”
You stopped breathing.
He left.
He left.
Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.
But you knew you had to.
⸻
You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.
The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.
He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
You stepped into the firelight without a word.
His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.
“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.
You swallowed. “You left.”
“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”
Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.
Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”
You moved toward him, every step heavy.
“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.
He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.
“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.
“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”
He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”
You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.
“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.
Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”
You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”
He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”
And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.
Hi! I have a request for Wolffe x fem!reader. They have a established relationship but Wolffe has been a little distant since order 66 happened... one night when he's sleeping in the readers coruscant apartment, she decides to ask him about it. Wolffe sort of pushes her away, thinking he's too broken and has already done too much bad, but she stays no matter what. She soothes him with some love and cuddles?
“Still Yours”
Commander Wolffe x Fem!Reader
⸻
The city lights of Coruscant cast a soft glow through the wide windows of your apartment, dancing across Wolffe’s armor where it lay discarded on the floor.
He lay on your bed now, back turned, shirt half-pulled on, one arm slung under his head like a shield.
You watched him breathe.
Even in sleep, it wasn’t easy. His breaths were shallow, uneven. Like he never really relaxed anymore. Like his body didn’t know how.
Since the end of the war—and the day everything changed—he’d been distant. Still present. Still Wolffe. But quieter. Withdrawn. Touch-starved but pulling away when you tried.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
You slid into bed beside him, soft and careful.
“Wolffe,” you whispered.
He didn’t open his eye.
“Are you awake?”
A beat of silence.
Then, “Yeah.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers across the back of his shoulder. “You’ve been… far away lately.”
He tensed under your touch. “I’ve just been tired.”
“No. You’re not tired. You’re hurting.” You sat up beside him, pulling the sheets with you. “You barely look at me anymore. You flinch when I say your name. You hold me like I’m something you’re about to lose.”
Wolffe turned over slowly, sitting up and running a hand down his face.
“Mesh’la, don’t do this right now.”
“I have to,” you said. “You think I don’t notice how hard you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine? You sleep in my bed like a ghost.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? That I followed orders that led to Jedi dying? That I don’t know what was real and what was the chip? That I still see it—them—when I close my eye?”
He stood, taking a few steps away like he could outrun it.
“I’m not who I used to be. I’m not your Wolffe anymore. I’m just—what’s left.”
You stood, quietly wrapping the sheet around yourself as you crossed the room to him.
“I don’t need the man you used to be. I love the man you are. Even when he’s broken. Even when he’s hurting.”
He shook his head. “You’re a senator. You’re out there fighting for clone rights beside Chuchi, risking your damn career. You still believe we’re worth saving. That I’m worth saving.”
“I do.”
“You’re wrong.”
You stepped in front of him, tilting his chin up until he had no choice but to look at you.
“I’m never wrong about you.”
Wolffe’s breath hitched, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.
“I let them die,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t even try to stop it. I just—followed orders like I always do. Like a good little soldier.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“Does that matter?” he rasped. “They’re still gone. I still pulled the trigger.”
You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, speaking against his skin.
“You’re not a weapon, Wolffe. You’re a man. One who has done everything he could to survive. And I know you. I know the way you fought for your brothers. I know how much you loved them. I know how hard it’s been for you to stay.”
His arms slowly, reluctantly, came around you. Tight. Desperate.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep you either. I’m not what you deserve.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss the scar at the edge of his temple, then rested your forehead against his.
“Then let me decide what I deserve. And I choose you.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your neck like he was finally letting himself feel.
You guided him back to bed, pulling the covers over the both of you, holding him close—his arms around your waist this time.
You whispered, “I’m still here, Wolffe. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without flinching.
⸻
hello! this is my first time sending any sort of request so i hope this is the right place! i absolutely love your writing and was wondering if you could write Hunter x a plus sized f reader (more specifically a reader struggling with loving her body). maybe sfw with a hint of suggestiveness? thank you!! <3
⸻
You stared at your reflection in the mirror of the Marauder’s fresher, scowling as you tugged at your shirt. It clung to the softest parts of you. The waistband of your pants had folded over—again—and if you stood a certain way, your stomach looked—
“Like a whole moon orbiting around me,” you muttered under your breath, smirking bitterly. “Galactic gravitational pull and all.”
It was your thing, after all. Make the joke before anyone else could. Keep it light. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you didn’t hurt.
You didn’t hear Hunter step in.
“You always talk about yourself like that when you think no one’s listening?”
Your heart skipped, stomach sinking faster than gravity.
You turned. “Well, yeah. Someone’s gotta say it. Might as well be me before someone beats me to the punchline.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and steady.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to brush past him. “It’s just a joke, Sarge.”
His hand came up, gentle but firm, stopping you before you could flee.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “Not to me.”
You tried to shrug it off, even as your throat tightened. “Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just realistic, you know? Built like a bantha in body armor. It’s fine.”
He blinked slowly. Once.
Then, “Don’t say that about my girl.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted. “I haven’t said it yet, but you are.”
Your protest fizzled somewhere in your chest.
He stepped closer, and now his hand was on your waist—your soft waist, the one you avoided letting anyone touch—like it belonged there.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you when you wear that shirt?”
You blinked. “You mean the shirt that makes me look like a wrapped ration pack?”
“I mean the shirt that hugs you in all the right places,” he murmured, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip like it was art. “The one that reminds me exactly how good you’d feel in my arms. Or on my lap. Or under me.”
Your cheeks burned. “Hunter…”
“I love how you look,” he said. “But more than that, I love you. All the parts you try to cover. All the jokes you use to hide the things you’re still learning to live with.”
His tone was quiet. Serious.
“You don’t need to pretend with me.”
Your throat ached. Your hands twitched at your sides like they didn’t know whether to cover your face or grab his.
“I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted softly.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Let me believe it for both of us until you can.”
You stared at him, all your words gone, and he kissed you—slow, reverent, grounding.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like something to fix.
You felt like someone wanted.
⸻
Later that night, you made another joke about needing “extra rations to fuel all this real estate,” and he didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you flush against him, kissed your neck, and growled in your ear:
“I hope you’ve got extra, sweetheart. I plan to spend all night exploring every damn inch of you.”
⸻
A/N - kind self inserted here, I’m a bigger girl and tend to make the jokes before anyone else can, not that most do
Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive
⸻
The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?
Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.
From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.
And tonight was no different.
Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.
Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”
You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”
He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”
You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”
Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”
“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”
He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”
From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”
“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.
“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”
You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.
“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”
You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”
Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”
Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.
“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.
His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”
You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”
Fives blinked. “Find out what?”
You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:
“If you want to come back to my apartment.”
Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.
“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.
“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.
You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”
Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.
⸻
The room was warm.
Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.
Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.
“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”
Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”
“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”
He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”
“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”
“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”
“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”
Fives groaned. “Both.”
A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:
“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”
You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”
“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”
You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.
He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”
“My name!” you said firmly.
“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”
You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”
Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”
You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”
He paused. “You don’t know?”
“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”
“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”
“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.
⸻
Echo was waiting for him.
Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.
Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.
“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”
Fives coughed. “Define fun.”
Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”
Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”
“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”
“You what?”
“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”
“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.
“Multiple times.”
“And you never told me?”
Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”
Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”
Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”
Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m accurate.”
Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”
Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.
“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”
“She has a last name?”
The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.
The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.
Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.
Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.
As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.
Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.
It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.
"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."
Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."
Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."
The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.
As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.
***
The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.
When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.
You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.
He was here to watch you.
You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.
After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.
"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."
You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"
His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."
It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.
You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.
Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.
And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.
"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.
"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."
You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."
And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.
The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.
The lights of Coruscant buzzed in their never-ending hum, a sharp contrast to the stillness that surrounded you as you made your way through the narrow halls of the Coruscant Guard's administrative building. The click of your boots echoed off the walls, and the air was thick with the usual tension.
As you passed by the cubicles, you could feel the weight of eyes on you—Trina's, mostly. She was at her desk, pretending to focus on a datapad but failing to hide the sharp, cutting glance she shot your way. You had no idea what her deal was, but it was like every move you made was another opportunity for her to find fault.
Kess, the other assistant, had been trying to remain neutral—sometimes siding with Trina, sometimes siding with you. But today, it was clear where she stood. She gave you a little shrug, an apologetic look, and then quickly turned her attention to Trina.
"I don't get it, Kess. Why do you always side with her?" Trina hissed, loud enough for you to hear, but not quite loud enough to be overtly disrespectful.
Kess tried to defuse the situation with a laugh, but it was hollow. "I just think we should all get along, that's all."
"Oh, please," Trina scoffed. "I think we all know whose side you're really on."
You rolled your eyes and turned to leave, not wanting to engage in their petty rivalry any longer. But then, the doors slid open to reveal Commander Fox standing in the hallway, his usual stoic demeanor unwavering as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"You're needed," Fox said simply, his voice low, betraying no hint of emotion.
You followed him into the briefing room, where the walls were covered in reports and intelligence updates. There was a strange energy in the air today, one you couldn't quite put your finger on. Fox stood by a table littered with datapads, his face hardening as he looked at one of the reports.
"Everything okay, Fox?" you asked casually, leaning against the table.
He didn't look at you, but his voice was thick with something you couldn't quite read. "It's nothing."
"You sure?" you pressed, your gaze narrowing.
Fox turned to face you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he glanced away, his jaw tight. "You mentioned something earlier. About being nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did you mean by that?"
For a split second, his stoic mask cracked, the faintest trace of concern flitting across his face before he locked it down again. But it didn't go unnoticed by you.
You hesitated. The mention of Aurra Sing, the bounty hunter, still lingered in your mind. You'd barely escaped her grasp, but her motives were still unclear. You'd been too shaken to process it at the time, but now the gravity of the situation was settling in.
"I—" You swallowed hard. "It's nothing, Fox. Just a run-in with a bounty hunter. Aurra Sing"
His face hardened at the mention of her.
"I'm not sure why she's after me, but... she was too close. I didn't think I'd make it out of there last night." You shrugged, trying to brush off the gravity of it all, but you could see the concern building behind his eyes. "I wasn't exactly planning on being in the line of fire, if you catch my drift."
Fox's posture didn't shift, but you could sense the tension in his stance. "You should have told me," he said, his voice betraying more emotion than usual.
You snorted. "I didn't think it would be a big deal, Fox. It's just a bounty hunter."
His gaze softened for just a moment, but it quickly turned back to its usual stoic intensity. "You're not just some bystander. You're important. Don't make light of things like this again. Understood?"
You nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment. "Understood."
The conversation was cut short as the door to the briefing room slammed open, and Trina entered, her eyes flashing with that usual arrogance. "Did I hear something about a bounty hunter?" she sneered, her gaze landing on you with more than a touch of disdain. "What, are you some kind of target now? Seems like trouble follows you everywhere."
Kess lingered in the doorway, but she was much quieter today, hanging back like she wasn't sure where her loyalties lay. It was like she was trying to gauge the room before making her move.
Fox's eyes flashed with annoyance, but his voice remained calm, controlled. "Trina, that's enough."
Trina narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't seriously be buying into her little story, can you? A galactic legend hunting her down? I don't know about you, but it sounds like someone's fishing for sympathy."
Fox turned his gaze back to you for a moment, and then back to Trina. "You'll need to mind your tone, Trina. This is a serious matter."
Trina huffed, clearly not impressed, but she didn't say anything else. She gave you a final look of contempt before storming out of the room, leaving the air heavy with her disdain.
Kess shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, watching the exchange. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost unsure.
Fox glanced at you, then back at Kess. "For now. But we'll be keeping a close eye on things. Don't take your safety lightly, not with Aurra Sing around." He paused before adding, "If anything else happens, you come to me."
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, but also the strange comfort of having someone like Fox looking out for you—even if it wasn't in the way you had expected.
As you walked back to your desk, the tension in the office hadn't died down. Trina and Kess were still at each other's throats, but something had changed in the dynamic. And somewhere in the background, you couldn't shake the feeling that Aurra Sing's shadow still loomed over you, and it was only a matter of time before she made her next move.
But for now, you had to survive the office politics—and the bounty hunter.
_ _ _
The hum of Coruscant's busy atmosphere felt oddly quiet as you returned to the office. It was a stark contrast to the calm, serene days you'd spent on Naboo. Your cousin's hospitality had been a much-needed reprieve, and the peaceful landscapes of Naboo had offered the perfect escape from the usual chaos. You couldn't help but feel recharged, the stress of office politics and bounty hunters temporarily forgotten.
You'd left without telling anyone, of course. The usual message to Fox had been a casual *"By the way, I'm off-world, visiting my cousin. I'll be back around this time."* No leave request, no formalities. It was just how you operated. And now, here you were—back, and very much prepared to deal with the aftermath of your absence.
As you entered the office, the first thing you noticed was the silence. It hung thick in the air, broken only by the soft click of your boots against the floor. You spotted Trina immediately, her eyes narrowing as she glanced up at you, her arms crossed.
"Oh, look who finally graces us with her presence," Trina sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she threw a pile of reports onto your desk. "What, were you living the good life on Naboo while the rest of us were stuck here, keeping things running?"
You didn't even flinch at her attitude. Instead, you casually dropped your bag on the desk and powered up your datapad, skimming through messages as though her words weren't even worth your attention.
Kess, standing by her desk, raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, not wanting to escalate things further. She was always caught between trying to keep the peace and avoiding the conflict that always seemed to bubble up around Trina.
But then the door slid open, and in walked Thorn, Thire, and Hound—three of the most notorious clones for adding fuel to the office drama. Thorn, in particular, was known for his stoic demeanor, but he was more than willing to throw in a comment or two, just to watch the chaos unfold.
Thorn leaned against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, his voice as dry as ever. "Well, well, look who's back from her little getaway," he said, his eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure Naboo was *just* what the doctor ordered."
Hound, standing near the back of the room, smirked and crossed his arms. "Yeah, must've been real rough out there. Too bad the rest of us couldn't get the same luxury treatment."
Thire chuckled, shooting you a teasing glance. "I hope you at least got some time to relax. Sounds like a vacation we could all use."
You barely looked up as you replied, still focused on your datapad. "Oh, it was great. Thanks for asking."
Trina, unable to resist taking another shot, leaned in, her voice sharp. "Must've been nice to disappear for a week. Some of us have responsibilities around here, you know."
You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've been holding down the fort, Trina," you said with exaggerated sweetness, giving her a quick, condescending smile.
Thorn, clearly enjoying the tension, glanced at the clones before turning back to you with a small smirk. "I think she's just jealous she didn't get a taste of the *relaxing* life you got to have," he teased, his tone completely deadpan.
But there was a shift in his expression, a flicker of something more serious when he glanced at Fox, who had silently entered the room and was now standing near the doorway. Thorn knew better than to press too far. The clones may have loved watching office drama, but they also knew where the line was—and that line was Commander Fox.
Fox gave no outward sign of having heard the comments, but there was something in the air that shifted the mood. Thorn, always in control of his own stoic composure, simply raised an eyebrow and backed off, sensing Fox's presence. He gave one last glance in your direction before turning to the rest of the room.
"We'll leave you to it, then," Thorn said, his tone neutral as he motioned to the clones. "But next time you decide to vanish for a while, let us know, yeah?"
The clones, now looking cautiously at Fox, quickly filtered out of the room, but not without throwing a few more playful glances your way. They were clearly amused by the little spectacle they'd just witnessed. Thorn, despite his reserved nature, couldn't resist a little chaos, and watching Trina's sour face as you returned was too good a moment to miss.
Once the clones had left, the tension in the room became almost palpable. Trina's smug smile faded as she shot you another look. "Must be nice to have that much freedom," she said, but her voice had lost a little of its bite. The reality was, she was on the defensive now, unsure of how to react to the clones' comments.
Kess took a step back from the situation, unsure of where to align herself today. She shifted from one foot to the other, glancing between Trina and you, caught in the middle of their rivalry.
You leaned back in your chair, eyes still locked on your datapad, completely unfazed by the tension. "It is nice," you said, the words casual, but there was an edge to your tone. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me."
Trina opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by Fox's voice, now much more authoritative. "That's enough, Trina," he said, his tone calm but firm. "I've had enough of the games today. Everyone, focus on the tasks at hand."
Trina huffed, muttering under her breath before turning back to her desk, clearly not done but not willing to escalate things further. Kess, sensing the shift, returned to her own work, though she kept glancing at you and the ongoing office drama with a hint of curiosity.
Fox looked at you for a moment, his gaze steady, as if weighing something in the air between you. But he said nothing more, and you knew better than to press him.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of passive-aggressive glances, subtle jabs, and quiet interactions. But as the hours ticked by, you felt a sense of amusement, even pride, that the office still couldn't figure you out—despite the clones' attempts to stir the pot, the undercurrent of rivalry, and the ever-present drama.
As long as you had your freedom, nothing could keep you down. Not even the endless office politics.
Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?
Thank you for the request!
Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!
⸻
Warnings: Injury, death, angst
When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.
Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.
“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”
Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”
You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”
His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.
You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”
He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.
You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.
⸻
You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.
“Careful,” he grunted.
You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”
Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.
You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.
It made him interesting.
“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”
Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.
“You ever shut up?”
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”
And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.
And then the war ended.
⸻
The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.
Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.
You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.
Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.
You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.
When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.
But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.
“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.
He didn’t answer.
“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”
Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”
His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”
He said nothing.
“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”
His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”
He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”
That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.
Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.
You stepped back.
“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
And this time, you were the one to leave.
⸻
The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.
You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.
But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.
And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.
So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.
And then one day—you saw him again.
You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.
“Crosshair.”
He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”
“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”
You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.
“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”
You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”
“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”
You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.
And you were easy to hate.
Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.
Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.
Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.
⸻
Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.
But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.
You were trusting again.
Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.
And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.
“Did you know what they were doing here?”
“Do you regret staying?”
“Why did you help me?”
You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.
And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.
Omega.
They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.
The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:
“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.
You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.
Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.
She’d whisper across the room in the dark.
“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”
Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”
She smiled.
You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.
You started planning.
You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.
The night came fast.
Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.
You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.
That’s when he stopped.
“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”
You shook your head. “I’m not going.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.
“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”
“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”
Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”
You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”
Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.
And then, quietly:
“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”
“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”
You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.
“Get her out,” you whispered.
And then you ran back toward the alarms.
⸻
The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.
You weren’t broken.
Not yet.
Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.
He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.
“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”
You didn’t speak.
He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.
“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”
You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”
Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.
“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”
“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”
He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.
“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”
Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.
“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”
You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”
That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”
You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.
“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”
Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.
“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”
As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.
“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”
He tilted his head, amused.
“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”
You smiled through bloodied teeth.
“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”
⸻
They didn’t let you say goodbye.
They didn’t let you scream.
But you didn’t beg.
You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.
And you went quietly.
Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.
⸻
Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:
“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”
He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.
Hunter didn’t say anything.
Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.
Omg! I saw you take requests! I love your work especially bad batch! I was thinking a Hunter x Fem!Reader where the reader is new to the ship, like medic or maybe even a soldier? But she uses like perfumes and obviously a different soap and he’s obsessed with trying to figure out what she smells like and with how nice it smells? You’re amazing! :))
Absolutely - sometimes I run out of ideas so love getting request! I hope you like it x
⸻
⸻
The Marauder had always smelled like metal, boot polish, and testosterone. Maybe a little like burnt caf on bad days. It wasn’t bad—it was just what Hunter was used to. Predictable. Familiar.
Until you showed up.
Fresh off an assignment with a battalion on Christophis, you were the newest addition to Clone Force 99—medic, technically, but you could hold your own in a fight too. The regs had spoken highly of your skills. That’s all Hunter needed to approve the transfer.
What he hadn’t anticipated was you.
Not your skills, not your sharp tongue or how fast you could stitch a man back together mid-firefight.
No, what Hunter hadn’t anticipated—what was currently driving him up the kriffing wall—was how good you smelled.
⸻
It started on the first day.
You’d walked up the ramp in your gear, throwing a satchel over your shoulder, hair pulled back, confidence in your step. The moment you passed him, it hit Hunter like a punch to the senses.
Sweet. Warm. Not too strong. Not floral, not fruity. Something clean. Something… familiar but elusive. He couldn’t place it.
His head had snapped toward you like a damn hound on instinct.
You hadn’t noticed—too busy joking with Tech about the medbay setup.
Hunter had clenched his jaw and focused. Or tried to. You walked past him again and—there it was. A whisper of something rich and soft. Stars, what was that?
⸻
The next few days were worse.
Every time you were near, his senses lit up like a battle alert. The scent of your soap after a shower. The subtle perfume that lingered on your neck and collarbone when you leaned over the holotable. Even the way your gear smelled—fresh, clean, nothing like the usual musty armor worn too long.
Hunter could track someone through a jungle with a five-day head start, but your scent was all he could think about, and you were right there—constantly in his space, brushing shoulders, handing him bandages, laughing at something Wrecker said.
He was losing it.
⸻
He caught you in the galley one night, the ship quiet, everyone else asleep.
You were perched on the counter in sleepwear and a hoodie, cradling a cup of caf like it held the secrets of the galaxy. The scent hit him again—stronger this time. No armor, no barrier. Just you, soft and warm and godsdamn intoxicating.
“You okay?” you asked, eyes flicking up to meet his.
Hunter blinked. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
You tilted your head. “Too much stimcaf or just the usual war trauma?”
He smirked. “Bit of both.”
You chuckled, then held out the cup. “Want some?”
He stepped forward—and nearly flinched when the scent hit him again. His jaw tightened.
“You good?” you asked, raising a brow.
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you wear?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, ears flushing. “I mean, you smell… different. Not in a bad way! Just… I can’t place it.”
You stared at him for a beat—then burst into laughter. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”
He scowled, only mildly embarrassed. “It’s been driving me nuts. I can’t figure it out.”
You hopped off the counter, still laughing, and came to stand close. Too close. He tensed when you leaned in just a little, tilting your head.
“It’s amber and sandalwood. Little bit of vanilla. And my soap’s just some fancy one I stole from an officer’s shower kit. Want me to make you a batch?”
Hunter’s brain short-circuited.
The scent was right there—intimate, surrounding him, and your voice was low, teasing.
“I—uh…” he stammered, then pulled back just slightly. “No. No, I think I’ll go insane if everything smells like you.”
You smiled slowly, eyes dark with amusement. “So… it’s a problem?”
He gave you a flat look. “Yes.”
You leaned in again, grinning. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, Sarge.”
Hunter’s voice was gravel. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
⸻
⸻
The ramp of the Marauder hissed as it lowered, groaning under the weight of exhausted boots and heavier egos. Smoke clung to armor plates and robes alike, the remnants of their latest skirmish still staining their clothes and lungs. But they were alive, in one piece, and Wrecker had already claimed that meant it was time for a snack.
“I told you,” Wrecker declared, stomping down the ramp with a grin that was a little too smug for someone who’d nearly face-planted during the evac, “nothing brings people closer than a near-death experience! Team bonding, baby.”
“Tell that to the squad of clankers you flattened like pancakes,” Tech muttered, adjusting his goggles. “They didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about our cohesion.”
Behind them, Echo trudged down with his helmet tucked under one arm, glancing behind him for you. His expression softened the moment his eyes met yours. You were brushing ash off your tunic and tucking your lightsaber back into your belt, brow furrowed in focus as always—but you felt his gaze and looked up with the smallest smile.
“Nice work back there,” Echo said, and though his voice was soft, it cut through the banter around you. “You saved my shebs. Again.”
You shrugged, trying to hide the way your heart jumped at the way he looked at you—like you were the whole kriffing galaxy. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“I already have,” he said, voice low, his smile a little crooked. You bumped shoulders with him, rolling your eyes with a grin that gave you away.
Hunter, catching the exchange from the edge of the ramp, raised a brow. “You two always this obvious?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Wrecker chimed in, loud enough to turn heads. “She’s totally his girlfriend.”
You froze mid-step. Echo’s expression twitched like his brain had blue-screened for a second.
“I—what—Wrecker!” he hissed, ears practically glowing red.
Wrecker threw up his hands, unbothered. “What? Everyone sees it! I mean, c’mon! They were making goo-goo eyes while taking down that tank together. That’s not ‘standard Jedi–clone operational procedure,’ that’s ‘save-the-galaxy-together’ couple stuff!”
Crosshair snorted from where he leaned against the ship. “You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. “That’s unrealistic. She’s not just a Jedi—she’s Old Republic trained. The whole code is sacred thing, remember?”
You gave Crosshair a look and stepped forward with arms crossed, voice cool and amused. “So you’re saying I can’t be both a warrior and a woman with depth?”
Crosshair stared at you for a moment, blinked once, and turned away. “Didn’t say that.”
Echo cleared his throat and stepped between you and the others, half-shielding you like instinct. “Can we not discuss Jedi doctrine like we’re gossiping in the barracks?”
“Oh, now he’s shy,” Tech said, tilting his head.
Wrecker grinned at you. “She didn’t say no, though.”
“Wrecker—” Echo growled, but you touched his arm, and he stopped short.
You looked up at him, just for a second. “Let them talk. We know what this is.”
Echo studied you—carefully, gently—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast. Then he nodded, just once. “Yeah. We do.”
The team fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, still teasing, still tossing back jabs and laughs, but it all faded a little in your periphery as Echo walked beside you. And maybe the Jedi code was sacred. Maybe there were rules. But as the sun dipped low over the landing pad and he smiled down at you like you were the one thing anchoring him to this chaotic galaxy, you weren’t thinking about rules.
You were thinking: Maybe we can survive this. Together.
⸻
The stars outside the viewport blinked like distant memories. The Marauder hummed with its usual low thrum, the rest of the squad either asleep or pretending to be. It was one of those rare, fragile moments—when the galaxy felt like it was holding its breath, just long enough for two people to realize they weren’t alone in it.
Echo sat on one of the benches in the common room, armor stripped down to the basics, a cup of something warm in his hand. You stepped in barefoot, robes loose and hair still damp from a rushed rinse, like you were shedding the battlefield piece by piece.
He looked up. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You shook your head, padding over to sit beside him. The silence between you was companionable, soft. You both knew how loud your thoughts got at night.
After a while, you pulled something from the inner pocket of your robes—a small, weathered talisman on a leather cord. Gold and deep bronze etched with faint runes, worn smooth by time and touch. Echo tilted his head.
“What’s that?”
You held it between your fingers for a second, then placed it gently in his hands.
“It’s… old. Really old,” you said. “It was given to me when I became a Padawan. Back long before the war, before the Jedi and the old Order became a memory. My master said it would keep me anchored. It’s seen every part of my life since—battlefields, meditations, exile, heartbreak, my Millenia long carbon freeze prisonment.”
Echo turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the ancient symbols. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I don’t think I need to be anchored anymore,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Not in the past, anyway. You remind me that I’m still here. That I still get to be here. And if anyone should carry a piece of where I came from into the future… it’s you.”
His fingers stilled. He looked at you like you were some impossible thing—like someone who should’ve been gone centuries ago, yet was sitting beside him, breathing the same air, bleeding in the same war.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
You smiled softly. “Just don’t lose it.”
Echo slipped the talisman over his head carefully, reverently, and tucked it under his chest plate. When he looked back at you, there was something heavy in his eyes—something like wonder, something like love.
“You always talk like you’re a ghost,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re flesh and blood, and you’re here. With us. With me. You don’t have to drift anymore.”
Your heart caught. You reached up and brushed your fingertips against his jaw, and he leaned into it without hesitation.
“I don’t feel like a ghost when I’m with you,” you whispered. “I feel… alive.”
Echo leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
And in the stillness of the Marauder, with the stars watching in silence, it felt like maybe—just maybe—the galaxy wasn’t all war and death and shadows.
It could be this, too.
It could be you and him.
⸻
Part 1
“Only One Target”
Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.
⸻
Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.
You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.
Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.
“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.
“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.
Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.
Skywalker.
Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.
Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”
Simple. Clean.
But Jedi never made things easy.
A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.
Perfect.
Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”
You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.
But Skywalker—he came for you.
He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.
“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.
“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”
“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”
Your blades clashed.
He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.
Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.
You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
“Who sent you?” he snarled.
“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”
His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.
This wasn’t going to plan.
Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”
“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.
“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”
You turned—but it was already too late.
A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.
Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.
Coward.
You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.
And in front of them stood a clone captain.
Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.
He didn’t look at you like a person.
He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.
You smirked through the pain.
“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t shoot you either.
⸻
The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.
You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.
Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.
“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.
You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”
He stopped pacing, turned on you.
“Who sent you?”
“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”
He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”
He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.
“I will get answers out of you.”
You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”
“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”
He stared at you for a long, tense beat.
Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.
“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.
Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.
⸻
Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.
You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.
“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”
Rex didn’t move.
“I don’t have time for your games.”
“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”
“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”
You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”
Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.
“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”
Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.
“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”
You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.
“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”
He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.
Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.
“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”
Your smirk softened. Just a bit.
“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”
“Convenient.”
“True.”
The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.
“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”
He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.
You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.
“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”
He paused in the doorway, head tilted.
“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”
The door hissed closed behind him.
But you knew.
You always knew.
⸻
Captain Rex hadn’t come back.
Not once.
And it was driving you crazy.
Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.
But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.
Something had changed.
The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Then the alarms started.
Again.
You stood.
Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.
Then the scream of a clone dying.
You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.
So dramatic.
She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.
“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”
You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”
She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”
You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.
“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”
Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”
She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.
Chaos.
And in chaos… came opportunity.
Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.
And you intended to walk through it.
You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”
But you were already lunging at him.
The fight was brutal.
He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.
But you were sharper.
He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.
You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.
Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.
You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:
“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”
Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
You smirked, breath warm at his ear.
“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”
And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.
Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.
“Damn it.”
⸻
The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.
You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.
You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.
The kiss.
You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.
Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.
Maybe it was to mock him.
Or maybe it was something else.
You pushed the thought away.
The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.
He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.
The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.
“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”
“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.
“For now.”
Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”
You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”
Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”
“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”
Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”
You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”
“They were in your way.”
You were quiet.
Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.
“You toyed with them.”
The words sliced like ice.
“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”
You tensed.
Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.
Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”
Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”
“You failed the objective.”
His voice rose like thunder.
“You kissed the enemy.”
You blinked once. Slowly.
“I did,” you said.
Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.
He stepped closer.
“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”
“I haven’t.”
He leaned in, towering.
“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”
You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”
He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.
“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”
He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.
“Next time, you kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure you could.
⸻
The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.
Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.
He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Back in that hallway.
Back in the smoke.
Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.
It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.
Instead, she kissed him.
And now she was out there.
Alive.
And he hated that he kept thinking about her.
Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.
Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”
“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”
Rex shifted. “Just processing.”
“Hm.”
Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.
“She messed with your head,” he said casually.
Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”
“She kissed you, didn’t she?”
That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.
Anakin grinned, triumphant.
“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”
Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”
Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”
Skywalker’s brow furrowed.
“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”
A pause. Tense. Thick.
Rex looked away.
“I hesitated.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“…I don’t know.”
It was the only honest thing he could say.
Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”
He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.
“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”
Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”
Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.
“You find her.”
A beat.
“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”
Rex nodded once.
But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.
⸻
“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.
Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”
Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”
Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”
That got his attention.
Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”
“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”
“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”
Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.
Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—
He clenched his jaw.
“She’s bait.”
“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.
“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”
But he wasn’t sure he believed that.
Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.
She wouldn’t hide.
Not unless she was hiding from them too.
⸻
You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.
Every shadow was a threat.
Every sound could be them.
You hadn’t slept in days.
Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.
He hadn’t even tried.
You were nothing to him now.
Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.
And yet, part of you was relieved.
No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.
But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.
You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.
Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.
Rex.
You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.
To his defiance.
His strength.
His disgust.
That heat in his stare when you kissed him.
You’d told yourself it was just a game.
So why did it still make your chest ache?
You swallowed hard.
And then you felt it.
A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.
And getting closer.
“They found me.”
⸻
Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.
“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.
Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”
Rex ignored them.
“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”
“No.”
But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.
This woman was running.
And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.
⸻
The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.
Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.
She should’ve known better.
She was good.
But he was better.
A flash of movement to his right.
He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.
And there she was.
Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.
She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.
In fact—she looked tired.
“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.
The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.
“Drop the weapon,” he barked.
You raised your hands. Slowly.
“I’m unarmed.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”
“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”
You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”
Rex didn’t answer.
He studied you.
No backup. No escape route. No fight.
This wasn’t an ambush.
This wasn’t a trap.
This was… surrender.
“Where’s your army?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Dooku?”
You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”
“And Ventress?”
A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”
That, at least, made sense.
Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.
“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.
“Why should I believe you?”
You looked at him.
Not smiling. Not teasing.
Just looking.
“I don’t care if you do.”
Another beat of silence.
And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.
“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”
He stared at you.
One word. One plea.
“Please.”
It wasn’t seductive.
It wasn’t tactical.
It was real.
And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.
The wind howled between you.
And he… didn’t pull the trigger.
Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
The truth sat thick between them.
“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”
There was a pause.
Then static cracked and—
“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.
“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.
Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.
When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.
“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”
Rex followed without a word.
⸻
The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.
You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.
Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.
Always watching.
“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.
“But you didn’t call me in.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
You looked up. Eyes meeting his.
And for the first time, neither of you looked away.
“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”
You exhaled, slowly.
“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”
Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.
You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”
The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.
Then—
“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.
You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”
“A dangerous one.”
“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”
Rex looked at you then. Really looked.
You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”
He flinched at that.
“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”
Rex didn’t respond right away.
Then, finally—
“I believe you.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”
He hesitated.
“…I don’t know yet.”
Another pause.
Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.
“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”
His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”
You smiled. “Did it work?”
He didn’t answer.
You were closer now. Too close.
And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.
But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.
Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”
He met your gaze.
“I don’t have time to wonder.”
“Maybe you should start.”
You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.
Then, at the last second, you pulled back.
“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.
Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
And outside, the storm raged.
⸻
Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.
“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.
Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”
Fives smirked. “He found her.”
“And didn’t bring her in.”
They shared a look.
“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.
Fives clicked his tongue.
“I think he hopes not.”
⸻
The storm had passed.
The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.
You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.
Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.
You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.
“They’ll know soon enough.”
“I know.”
“They’ll think you let me go.”
“I did.”
Finally, you turned to him.
Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.
“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.
“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”
You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then you stepped forward. Closer.
“This is the part where I disappear again.”
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step forward.
Didn’t say stay.
Because he couldn’t.
You leaned in, eyes searching his.
“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”
And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.
Just real.
Warm.
A goodbye.
Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then you were gone.
Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.
Like you’d never been there at all.
Except he’d never forget.
⸻
Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”
Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”
Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.
“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.
“She was never there,” Rex said.
Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”
“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”
They watched him.
Said nothing.
Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.
And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.
A smear.
No, not a smear.
Lipstick.
Fives blinked.
Then grinned like a menace.
But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.
And muttered without looking back—
“Don’t.”
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.”
⸻
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.
---
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.
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.
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.
⸻
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.”
⸻