Dominoes Fall, But No One Ever Tells You What Happens To The Last One. Lyrics From: Wait For Me - Hadestown

“War on Two Fronts” pt.6

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

⸻

The Coruscant skyline blurred outside the high-rise window, but she wasn’t really looking at it.

Lights moved. Ships passed. Life carried on.

And yet, she sat still—perched on the edge of the cot in the temporary quarters she’d been granted for this brief return. Her armor was half-off, discarded in pieces across the room. Her saber lay untouched on the table beside her. Fingers twisted the edge of her undersleeve, tugging it, letting go, tugging again.

Her breathing had finally steadied.

But the storm inside hadn’t.

That training room scene played again and again behind her eyes—the shouting, the aggression, the way they’d both stood there like she was some sort of prize. Like her heart was something to be won, not understood.

And for a moment, she hated them both.

Not just for what they did.

But for making her feel small.

For making her doubt herself.

She closed her eyes, leaning forward to rest her arms on her knees. Stars, how had it come to this? She’d survived battles. Held diplomatic ground under fire. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Council members. And yet the moment her heart became involved—she unraveled.

She thought of Bacara first. Of the kiss. The rawness of it. How he touched her like he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again.

And yet—he barely said anything. He kept her at a distance until the moment emotion exploded out of him like blaster fire.

Then Rex. Steady. Soft. Listening. But no less possessive when pushed. He was a better man, she thought. A better soldier. But still… a soldier. Still bound by something that meant she’d always be second to the cause.

Were either of them truly what she wanted?

Or had she been so starved for something that felt real in the chaos of war, that she clung to anything that looked like affection?

She stood and crossed the room, pacing, trying to shake the ache out of her bones. Her hand brushed the window frame.

And quietly, bitterly, she whispered to herself—

“Maybe I don’t want either of them.”

Maybe she wanted peace.

Maybe she wanted clarity.

Maybe she wanted herself back.

A knock startled her—sharp and fast.

But she didn’t move.

Not yet.

The knock came again—measured, firm, but not forceful.

She sighed, rolling her eyes with a groan. “If either of you came back to apologize, you’ve got ten seconds before I throw something heavy.”

“No need for theatrics,” came the unmistakable voice from the other side. “It’s just me.”

Her spine straightened like a snapped cord. “Master?”

“I’m coming in,” he said plainly.

The door hissed open before she could answer. Mace Windu stepped in, his presence as steady as the Force itself, robes still crisp despite the lateness of the hour, a subtle frown pressing between his brows as he regarded her. There was no lecture, no judgment, not yet. Only concern veiled beneath the usual stone exterior.

“You don’t look like someone who’s meditating,” he observed.

“I wasn’t,” she replied dryly, arms folded.

“I figured.” He stepped farther inside, his eyes scanning the scattered armor pieces, the half-torn undersleeve she hadn’t realized she was still tugging at. “You look like someone unraveling.”

“I’m not.” Her voice was too quick.

He said nothing.

She sighed, letting the breath shudder out of her as she dropped heavily back onto the edge of the cot.

“I didn’t call for advice,” she muttered.

“I didn’t say you did,” Mace replied simply. He stepped over to the small chair across from her and sat, folding his arms into the sleeves of his robe. “But I heard enough to know something’s shifted.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m sure you’ve heard plenty by now.”

“I’m not here as a Council member.” His tone was different now—quieter, gentler. “I’m here because you’re my Padawan. No title changes that.”

Something in her broke at that. Just a crack.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Master.”

“I think you do. I just think you’re afraid to do it.”

She looked at him, eyes sharp. “You think I’m afraid to choose?”

“No,” he said, and it was immediate. “I think you’re afraid to not choose. To walk away. To be alone.”

That struck something deep.

She stared at the floor.

“I don’t want them fighting over me. Like I’m some kind of… prize. And I definitely don’t want to be part of some toxic love triangle during a war.”

“You’ve always led with your heart,” Mace said. “And your heart’s always been too big for the battlefield.”

She blinked, stunned by the softness of it. Mace Windu, the most unshakeable Jedi on the Council, calling her heart too big.

“Doesn’t feel like a strength right now.”

“It is. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “You’ll figure this out. But don’t let them decide who you are. And don’t let anyone take your peace—not even someone who loves you.”

Her eyes burned now, but she blinked fast to keep them dry.

“Thanks… Master”

He smiled then. A small one. Barely a twitch of his lips—but she saw it.

“I’ll be in the Temple tomorrow. If you need to talk again—just talk—you know where to find me.”

He stood, gave her one last look, then left as quietly as he’d come.

And this time, the silence in the room felt a little less loud.

⸻

The city outside her window glowed in shifting hues of speeders and skyline, lights tracing invisible lines like veins in durasteel. She hadn’t moved much since Mace left—too exhausted to think, too unsettled to sleep. Her mind was loud. Still hurt. Still confused. Still… waiting.

And then came the knock.

Not sharp. Not gentle. Just… steady.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have the strength to.

The door opened anyway. The audacity made her want to hurl something again—but when she looked up, it wasn’t who she expected.

Bacara stepped inside, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from some earlier skirmish. His expression was unreadable as always—eyes too sharp, jaw too tense—but there was something in his stance. Hesitation.

She scoffed and turned back toward the window. “You know, I figured you’d be the last one to come knocking.”

He didn’t respond at first. Just stood there, watching her like she was a particularly complex tactical situation. Finally, he set his helmet down on the small table and crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.

“You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.”

The silence that followed was thick.

“You mean the shouting? The posturing? The way you and Rex acted like I was some kind of prize to be won in a sparring match?” Her voice was calm now, but it carried an edge. “You both embarrassed yourselves. And me.”

“I know,” he said plainly. “That’s why I’m here.”

She turned to face him, arms crossed.

“You don’t do apologies, Bacara.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can try.”

That stunned her into stillness. He wasn’t joking. Not hiding behind orders or ranks or deflections. There was no sharp military snap to his tone, no bark. Just gravel and honesty.

“I’ve spent most of my life cutting off emotions that slow a man down,” he said. “Guilt. Regret. Affection. All of it. I had to. Mundi—he doesn’t train his men to be… soft.”

“No, he doesn’t,” she muttered. “He trains them to be machines.”

Bacara looked away. “I followed that lead for a long time. It made me strong. It made me efficient. But it also made me a stranger to myself.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what am I in this equation?”

“The reminder that I’m still human.” His voice was quieter now. “That I feel more around you than I’ve felt since Kamino.”

That cracked something in her. Something she’d been gripping tight since the moment things started spiraling.

She swallowed. “You were horrible to me. Not just today. Since the beginning.”

“I know,” he said again. “But I never hated you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I was listening, that night with Windu. I heard everything.” He met her eyes now. “I didn’t come here to beg. And I didn’t come here to fight. I just needed you to know—I don’t want to be the man who makes you doubt your worth. I don’t want to be that Commander. Not with you.”

Her heart was thudding against her ribs. She hated how much he still had that effect on her. Hated that his voice, his damn sincerity, could crack through months of cold.

“I don’t know if I can trust you,” she said softly. “Not yet.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied. “But I’m still here.”

He stepped closer—slow, careful—and brushed his hand against hers. His fingers were cold from the night air. She didn’t pull away.

“You kissed me,” she whispered.

“I’d do it again.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, something defiant and fragile behind them. “Then do it right this time.”

He did.

This one wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bitter or angry or desperate. It was slow. It was deliberate. It was raw in a way that hurt and healed at the same time.

When they pulled apart, they didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

He didn’t stay the night. That wasn’t who they were yet. But when the door closed behind him, the quiet left behind felt different.

Hopeful.

⸻

He knew before she said anything.

He could feel it the second he stepped into her quarters—before the door hissed closed behind him, before she turned to face him, before her eyes even lifted from the floor.

It was in the air. That stillness. The kind of silence that follows a storm and leaves nothing untouched.

Rex stood there a moment, helmet cradled under his arm, expression unreadable. “You’ve made a choice.”

She nodded. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally managed, “I didn’t mean for it to get like this.”

He gave a small, sad smile. “I know.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t.” He said it quickly—too quickly.

Her brow creased, but he held her gaze with that steady calm she’d always admired. “You were never mine to keep,” he said gently. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“But I love you.” The words escaped like breath, hoarse and aching. “You need to know that.”

He exhaled through his nose. Looked away for just a second, then met her eyes again.

“I know that too.”

She took a step closer, but stopped herself. “I didn’t want to string you along. I couldn’t keep doing this to you—this back and forth. I chose Bacara. But that doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t real.”

Rex nodded once, slowly. His throat worked. “He’s not better than me.”

“I know.”

“But you’re better with him?”

She blinked hard. “I don’t know what I am with him. I just know… I don’t want to live in limbo anymore.”

For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But instead, he stepped forward, reached out, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gentleness of it unraveled her.

“You were always going to break my heart,” he said softly. “I just hoped I’d be enough to stop it from happening.”

She blinked fast. Tears clung to her lashes.

“Rex…”

He shook his head. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You never led me on. We’re soldiers. We steal what moments we can before the war takes them away. You gave me more than I ever expected.”

And then he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead.

When he stepped back, something in her chest fractured.

“I’ll see you on the next campaign,” he said, voice rough, but steady.

And then he was gone.

She stood there long after the door closed, arms wrapped tight around herself. She didn’t know what she felt more—relief, regret, or the slow, dawning fear that she’d lost something that could never be replaced.

⸻

The halls of the barracks were quiet this late, a kind of peace Rex had never trusted. Silence was just a disguise war wore before it struck again. But this—this wasn’t the battlefield.

This was heartbreak.

He sat on the edge of his bunk, armor half-stripped, chest plate tossed aside, vambraces on the floor. His gloves were clenched in one hand, thumb rubbing worn fabric. Like holding on might keep him from slipping into something dark and stupid.

Jesse passed him once without saying a word. Not because he didn’t care—but because even Jesse knew when something hurt too much for words.

She chose Bacara.

The thought came unbidden, like a knife twisted in his side.

He didn’t hate Bacara. Not really.

But Force, he envied him. Envied the way she softened when she looked at the Commander. Envied the way Bacara could be cold, brutal even, and still… she reached for him. Still found something worth saving in that hard shell of a man.

Rex had bled for her. Laughed with her. Been vulnerable in ways he hadn’t been with anyone else. He’d offered her the part of himself that he didn’t even understand most days.

And she had loved him. She had. That much he didn’t doubt.

But love wasn’t always enough. Not when you’re trying to love two people, and one of them pulls your gravity just a little harder.

He sighed, leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. Helmet resting between his boots.

“Captain,” a voice said softly from the doorway.

It was Ahsoka.

He didn’t look up. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

She stepped inside anyway, the door sliding shut behind her.

“I felt it. Through the Force. You’re… not alright.”

He smiled bitterly. “You’re getting better at that.”

Ahsoka folded her arms. “She picked Bacara.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No point in pretending otherwise,” he said. His voice was quiet. Raw.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He lifted his head. His eyes looked older than they should have. “She made a choice. She deserves that. They both do.”

Ahsoka sat on the bunk across from him. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“No,” Rex said. “It doesn’t.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I always thought you’d end up with someone like her,” Ahsoka said, almost wistfully. “Strong. Sharp. Stubborn.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. Me too.”

She leaned forward, her expression gentle but firm. “You didn’t lose her, Rex. You loved her. That counts for something.”

Rex looked at her—this young, impossibly wise Padawan who had seen too much already. “Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m alone again.”

“No,” Ahsoka agreed softly. “But it means your heart still works. And that’s something most of us can’t say anymore.”

He looked down at the gloves in his hand. At the callouses on his fingers. At everything he still had to carry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, mostly to himself.

And maybe, someday, he would be.

But not tonight.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tech x Mechanic Reader

Summary: After the war, you reprogrammed a troop of abandoned B1 battle droids to serve with kindness—not violence. When Clone Force 99 shows up for a supply run, Tech questions your methods, and you challenge his logic.

You found them half-dead in the sand. Twenty B1 battle droids, dumped in a sun-scorched wreck outside the outpost, like bones picked clean by time and war. Most folks would've scavenged the parts, maybe sold off a few limbs if the servos were still functional.

But you? You were a little lonely, a little dangerous, and very, *very* good with code.

Rewiring them took weeks. You erased what the Separatists left behind, built your own parameters from scratch, and gave them something they'd never had before: choice.

You taught them to wave. To carry groceries. To call you "Friend" instead of "Master."

And when people flinched at the sight of battle droids strolling through town, you dipped your brush in paint. Mint green, lavender, sunflower yellow. You gave them smiley faces, heart decals, flower crowns made from leftover wire. You made them soft. Funny. Endearing.

They were still capable of violence—so were you—but they only used it when you gave the order.

Which wasn't often.

---

Clone Force 99 didn't arrive with blasters drawn, but the tension clung to them like dust. The mission was simple: a supply pickup for Cid. In and out. But this planet made Wrecker's nose wrinkle, and Echo kept his blaster low and ready.

Hunter spotted the droid first—lavender chassis, daisies painted across its plating, an old satchel slung over one shoulder as it meandered through the marketplace humming something vaguely cheerful.

"Is that... a B1?" Echo asked, narrowing his eyes.

"It appears to be carrying coolant," Tech said, scanning with his datapad. "And whistling."

Wrecker let out a low chuckle. "Guess the war *really* is over."

"Something's off," Hunter murmured. "Let's follow it."

They kept their distance as the droid turned off the main strip and waddled down a side alley, past a half-crumbling sign that read *THE FIXER'S NEST* in flickering neon.

The shop was a bunker of welded panels and salvaged Separatist tech. Outside, another B1—bright pink with a lopsided sun painted on its chest—was sweeping the doorstep and chatting to a GNK droid.

"Friend says no sand in the workshop," it explained, very seriously. "Sand gets in the gears. Sand *hurts feelings*."

The Bad Batch exchanged a look.

Hunter stepped forward and tapped twice on the doorframe.

You didn't even look up from where you were elbow-deep in a deconstructed astromech.

"You're late," you said, voice calm. "Tell Cid her coolant's in the crate by the wall. So's the power cells, bolts, and the weird candy she likes."

There was a pause.

"We didn't say we were here for Cid," Echo said slowly.

Now you looked up—smirk sharp, eyes sharper.

"Didn't have to. You've got that *'we work for someone mean, grumpy and morally grey'* vibe. Plus, you match the order details she sent me yesterday."

Wrecker moved to the crate and peeked inside. "Yep. All here."

"Of course it is," you muttered. "I run a business, not a guessing game."

Tech, meanwhile, was still staring at the droids—two were dusting the shelves with actual feather dusters, and another had just handed you a datapad while humming.

"These are B1 units," he said, voice laced with something between awe and concern. "Fully functional. Active. Painted."

You stood, wiping your hands on a rag. "I call that one Sprinkles."

"They're dangerous," he said immediately. "You realize they could revert to their original programming at any time—"

"Not mine," you cut in. "I rewrote them myself. Erased every combat subroutine. They're coded to help, protect, and be as non-threatening as a bowl of soup."

Tech stepped forward, clearly bristling. "Their hardware alone makes them capable of violence. You cannot override thousands of lines of military protocol with flower decals and whimsy."

"No," you said coolly, "but I can override them with skill, precision, and an understanding of droid psychology that clearly surpasses yours."

Hunter winced. Echo muttered something under his breath. Wrecker made the universal *oooooh, burn* face.

Tech, however, pushed up his goggles like you'd challenged him to a duel. "I would very much like to inspect your code."

You arched a brow. "What, no dinner first?"

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

You grinned. "Don't worry, Professor. I'll even let you use the comfy chair."

Sprinkles chirped and handed Tech a cup of caf with perfect comedic timing.

"Welcome, new Friend!" it said cheerfully.

Tech took the cup automatically, staring down at it like it might explode.

You leaned on the counter and gave him a slow once-over. "You gonna tell me how unsafe I am again, or are you here to learn something?"

He met your gaze, thoughtful now. Curious. "...Both."

You smiled, victorious.

---

Tech hadn't stopped talking for fifteen minutes straight.

Not that you minded. His cadence was quick, his mind quicker, and his goggles fogged slightly whenever he got excited. Which, it turned out, was often—especially when discussing battle droid memory cores, sub-routine overrides, and how you managed to build a loyalty system based on *empathy* instead of authority.

"You replaced their original fail-safe with a social dependency loop," he said, practically glowing. "That's... innovative. Risky. But brilliant."

"I try," you said, leaning against your workbench. "It helps that they trust me. Most people don't trust anything unless they can control it. Droids aren't any different."

Tech nodded slowly, examining the code you'd opened for him on your terminal. "You used a behavioral reinforcement system. Repetition and reward. This is similar to clone trooper training methodology—except applied to machines."

You gave him a sly look. "Are you comparing yourself to a B1?"

"I am acknowledging structural parallels in behavioral learning patterns," he replied, completely straight-faced.

You grinned. "That's what I said."

Tech paused, frowning slightly. "You are... amused by me."

"Observant, aren't you?" You stepped closer, brushing your shoulder against his as you leaned in to point at a line of code. "This part here—subtle failsafe. If they ever encounter an override attempt from an external signal, it loops them back to me."

He blinked, eyes darting from the screen to your face. "That is... impressively cautious."

"I've been told I'm full of surprises."

He didn't respond—just squinted closer at the screen.

You sighed, lips twitching. "Nothing? Not even a blush? Stars, you *are* all business."

Before he could answer (or continue missing your very obvious flirting), a loud crash echoed from the street outside, followed by the unmistakable hiss of a thermal disruptor and the annoyed squawk of one of your droids.

You were already moving.

Outside, a low-rent bounty hunter—tatty armor, one glowing eye, and an attitude that outpaced his ability—was holding one of your B1s at blaster point.

"Move, scrapheap, or I'll scrap you myself," he snarled.

The droid blinked. "Friend said no yelling. Friend also said no blasters unless you bring candy."

"*Candy?*"

You stepped into the street like a storm cloud in boots.

"Is there a reason you're threatening my droid, or are you just bored and stupid?"

The bounty hunter turned to you, smug. "This thing walked in front of my speeder. I don't care how shiny you paint 'em—B1s are still clanker trash. I'm just doing the galaxy a favor."

You gave a slow whistle.

Three more droids stepped out from alleyways and rooftops, all armed with repurposed but deactivated blasters—they didn't need live ammo to intimidate. One even had a frying pan.

The bounty hunter backed up a step.

You raised a hand.

"Engage," you said simply.

They moved like a synchronized swarm. Two pinned his arms while the others knocked the blaster from his hands and dismantled his boots with surgical precision. The frying pan droid stood back and provided color commentary.

"Friend says don't be mean! Friend says fix your attitude!"

The bounty hunter was on the ground and begging within seconds.

You stepped forward, crouched down, and grabbed him by the collar.

"You threaten one of mine again, and I'll let them finish what they started. You hear me?"

He nodded frantically.

"Good." You turned to your droids. "Escort him to the edge of town. Gently."

They saluted with cartoonish enthusiasm and dragged him off, half-hopping as they went.

You stood, dusted your hands, and turned back to find Tech watching with an unreadable expression.

"Well?" you said, folding your arms.

"That was... efficient," he admitted. "But highly aggressive."

You raised a brow. "They followed my orders exactly. Didn't fire a shot. Didn't kill. Didn't even insult his boots. I programmed them to protect what's mine, not wage war."

"But the capability—"

"*Exists.*" You cut in. "Just like yours does. Just like mine. The question isn't what they *can* do. It's what they *choose* to do. And what I program them to choose."

Tech looked at you then—really looked at you. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Understanding. Respect.

Maybe even admiration.

"They're not like the others," he said, finally.

You smirked. "Neither am I."

He hesitated, adjusting his goggles. "Would you... allow me to assist you in refining their motor skills protocols? I have a few ideas."

You leaned on the workbench again, grinning. "You wanna help me teach battle droids ballet?"

Tech blinked. "Not... precisely."

"Come on, Tech," you said, voice low and teasing. "Live a little."

He didn't answer, but he did roll up his sleeves and pull out a datapad, already scribbling new subroutine formulas with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You might not have cracked the flirtation firewall yet—but the code was definitely compiling.

_-~-_

Read more works

Title: Meet Me in the Woods

Commander Cody x Jedi!Reader

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.

⸻

“War On Two Fronts” pt.1

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

(A/N, this fic is purely for my own amusement, enjoy it if you must. I simply wanted to create the most random, somewhat unhinged, love triangle I could think of)

The Jedi Temple stood still that morning.

Even with the war breathing down the galaxy’s neck, even with whispers of clones and Kamino and Separatist strongholds, the Temple had not forgotten how to hold its silence.

A rare breeze swept through the Pillars of the hall, rustling the gold-edged tapestries that hung like memories between the columns. The high, vaulted ceiling glowed dimly from the skylights overhead—no harsh illumination today. Just solemn sun and shadow.

You knelt at the center of it all, the marble cool beneath your knees, the hem of your robes curled slightly from movement. Your hands, for once, were still.

Before you stood Master Windu.

And as always, he was a wall.

A composed, unmoving force of principle and power—yet even now, in his rigid stance and unreadable expression, you could feel it. That slight shift in his presence. That guarded warmth he never allowed the others to see. His version of pride was like his version of affection: precise. Controlled. But real.

“You’ve grown into a warrior the Council did not expect,” he said quietly. His voice echoed through the chamber, flat but grounded. “That is both your strength… and your warning.”

A wry smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “That sounds like you, Master.”

“Former Master,” Mace corrected, though the corner of his mouth almost twitched. “As of today.”

You glanced sideways, just enough to catch a glimpse of Master Yoda seated beside the ceremonial flame, nodding with quiet approval. A few other Masters flanked the hall—Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, Obi-Wan. Anakin was here too, arms crossed, a smirk barely hidden. Of course he would be. He’d want to see someone else screw with the rules for once.

Mace raised his amethyst saber.

The room fell into breathless quiet, save for the snap-hiss of energy igniting.

“For your skill in battle,” he said. “For your persistence in training. For your commitment to the Force—despite your unorthodox methods.”

You heard the faintest beat of amusement in his voice, even as the blade hovered above your right shoulder.

“I name you Jedi Knight.”

The saber passed over your left shoulder, then extinguished in a smooth hiss. The light faded.

So did the weight.

You rose to your feet, your chest oddly tight.

You’d imagined this moment a thousand times. You thought you’d grin. You thought you’d make a joke. Maybe wink at Anakin, toss your braid in celebration.

But instead, you looked at Mace.

And for the first time since you’d been a reckless thirteen-year-old hurling training sabers at his back in the practice ring… you saw the crack in his armor.

Pride.

Not spoken. Never spoken.

But it was there.

He stepped forward and quietly handed you your old braid, cut clean through and wrapped carefully in cloth. His gloved hand lingered a second too long as you took it.

“You’ll never be like me,” he said, low enough for only you to hear.

You looked up at him, caught off-guard.

“And that is the greatest relief I’ve known in some time.”

Your throat tightened, emotion flashing hot behind your eyes, but you swallowed it.

“I learned from the best,” you managed, voice rough.

He didn’t smile. But he gave you a look that you would remember when the sky fell—when the war bled through every part of your soul. A look that said: I see who you are. I will always see it.

And then the moment passed.

Yoda called the next words.

The crowd shifted. Masters murmured. A few clones, newly commissioned, stood near the archway in pristine armor. The air already smelled like smoke. War was coming, and peace was being written into the margins of your life.

You were a Jedi Knight now.

And you were already being sent to assist the Galactic Marines on Mygeeto.

⸻

The Venator-class cruiser was silent in the way warships always were before deployment—tense, mechanical, full of breath held in systems and lungs alike.

You stepped onto the hangar deck with your boots echoing, the hem of your new robes catching the gust from a passing LAAT. The smell of oil and ozone hit like a punch. The air was cooler than the Temple. Less forgiving.

The Galactic Marines didn’t look your way when you passed.

They didn’t need to.

Their reputation had preceded them—shock troopers bred for winter warfare and brutal sieges, trained under a commander who was as known for his silence as he was for his kill count.

Commander Bacara.

You spotted him almost immediately near the forward transport: broad frame, maroon-striped armor, helmet on. He didn’t salute. Didn’t approach. Just stood, arms crossed over his DC-15, as if sizing you up from thirty paces.

You let the moment hang before making your way to him, slow and purposeful.

“Commander Bacara,” you greeted, offering a nod. “I’m [Y/N], attached to this campaign per Council orders.”

Silence.

Not a word. Not even a hum of acknowledgment.

You arched a brow.

“Right. Strong, silent type. Got it.”

Still nothing. His visor remained locked on you, unreadable.

“Did the clones get assigned vocal cords or are you just allergic to Jedi in general?”

That got a reaction—a tilt of the helmet, ever so slight. Then, at last, a gravel-thick voice rumbled from the vocoder:

“Only the loud ones.”

Your mouth quirked into something halfway between irritation and amusement. “Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Before he could reply—or walk off, which you sensed he very much wanted to do—a voice cut in behind you.

“[Last Name].”

You turned, spine stiffening.

Ki-Adi-Mundi stood at the foot of the boarding ramp, flanked by two clone officers. His long fingers were clasped behind his back, face pinched in that constant mix of detachment and disdain.

You bowed, briefly.

“Master Mundi.”

“I’ve been reviewing the battle plan for Mygeeto,” he said, skipping any preamble. “We’ll be launching a three-pronged assault on the main Separatist refinery. Bacara will lead the frontal push with his battalion, supported by armor units and orbital fire.”

Your jaw clenched.

“With all due respect, Master, a frontal push against entrenched droid cannons is going to get a lot of men killed.”

Ki-Adi blinked at you, calmly. “That is war. They are soldiers. They understand the risks.”

“They understand orders. Not suicidal tactics.” Your voice rose just slightly, heat creeping in. “If we reroute half the armor for flanking and force the droids to split, we could avoid heavy losses and push them off the ridge before nightfall.”

“I did not ask for a tactical critique,” Mundi said, tone sharpening. “And I trust Commander Bacara’s ability to execute the current plan.”

You glanced at Bacara. He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. Just stared.

Of course he agreed with Mundi. They were cut from the same ice.

“I didn’t realize Jedi Master meant immune to input.”

Silence fell over the deck. The clones nearby tensed. Bacara’s helmet shifted an inch toward you.

Mundi stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You are newly knighted, [Last Name]. This war will demand obedience, not bravado.”

You took a slow breath.

Then offered the barest, tightest smile. “Then it’s a good thing I never had much of either.”

Mundi turned and strode up the ramp without another word.

You exhaled once he was gone, rolling your shoulders like you could shrug off the frustration. You could feel Bacara still watching.

“What?” you snapped without looking at him.

There was a beat of silence.

“You better be half as good as you think you are.”

You turned. “Or what?”

“I’ll be requesting a reassignment.”

Your laugh came out bitter. “Better men have tried.”

He paused. Then, with a tilt of his head, said lowly: “I’m not a better man. I’m a soldier.”

Then he turned and walked away.

You stood there a moment longer, heat buzzing under your skin. You weren’t sure if it was from anger—or something worse.

⸻

The descent onto Mygeeto was chaos.

Even through the LAAT’s thick hull, you could feel the storm—icy wind slicing across the city’s skeletal towers, artillery screaming through clouds of smoke and crystalline ash. The Separatists had fortified every corner of the industrial sector, their cannon fire lighting up the skyline like a cursed sunrise.

As the dropship pitched, the clones inside with you braced without a word. Focused. Ready. Not afraid—just used to dying.

Your hand gripped the support bar as the doors peeled open mid-hover, revealing a battlefield straight from a nightmare. Turbolaser fire scorched the skyline. Glimmering bridges of ice and shattered durasteel crumbled beneath the weight of battle tanks. Somewhere far below, you saw a battalion caught in a choke point—blaster bolts raining down from enemy artillery nested in a half-collapsed tower.

Your stomach turned.

“Is that Bacara’s forward unit?” you shouted over the roar.

“Yes, sir!” one of the clone gunners confirmed. “Pinned since the last push!”

You turned to the pilot. “Drop me there. Now.”

The pilot hesitated. “But orders—”

“Now.”

The gunship banked sharply, the icy wind slamming into you as you leapt onto the fractured platform below, lightsaber already blazing to life.

It took less than ten minutes.

Droids fell in pieces, turrets melted under redirected blaster bolts, and you pushed your way to the trapped Marines like a blade through frost. You helped them retreat behind makeshift cover, shielding them with the Force and your saber, yelling for them to move. Not all of them made it.

But more than would have.

When the smoke cleared, and the men were medevaced out, you stood amid the wreckage, panting, cut along one shoulder and streaked with soot.

And Bacara was waiting for you.

He stormed toward you from the north ridge, visor locked onto yours, stride like a thunderhead.

You straightened, chin high, refusing to flinch.

“You disobeyed direct chain-of-command,” he growled, voice deep and cold. “That was my operation.”

“Your men were dying,” you snapped. “I made a call.”

“It wasn’t your call to make. I had them.”

“They were pinned with zero cover, Bacara! If you had a plan, it was to bury them in ice!”

His helmet came off in one sharp motion.

You hadn’t seen his face until now.

Shaved head. Sharp scar across the side of his cheekbone. And a scowl that looked carved from stone.

“Don’t pretend you know my men better than I do, Jedi.”

You stepped forward. “And don’t pretend that your silence is strategy. You may be good at war, but you’re not the only one fighting it.”

Before he could reply, another voice cut through the comms.

“Commander Bacara. Young [Last Name]. Report to the north command post immediately.”

It was Mundi.

The command post was a hollowed-out transport, half-frozen and lit by dim tactical screens. Ki-Adi-Mundi stood in the center, flanked by officers.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“You endangered the mission with your reckless disobedience.”

“I saved your troopers.”

“You undermined your commander. You undermined me.”

You stared at him, jaw locked.

Mundi finally turned, his tone colder than the planet itself. “You may carry a lightsaber, but you are not exempt from consequence. Effective immediately, you are being reassigned.”

“What?” you breathed. “You can’t be serious.”

“You will report to General Skywalker and the 501st at once. They’ve requested Jedi support. You’re clearly more suited to their methods.”

You laughed once, bitter. “You mean chaos? No rules? You’d get rid of me in an instant?”

“If it will keep you from sabotaging another campaign, then yes.”

You looked to Bacara.

He said nothing. Didn’t even look at you.

It stung more than it should have.

Mundi turned away, already dismissing you. “Dismissed.”

You stood there a moment longer, anger a low drum in your ribs.

Then you turned sharply and left—your boots loud, your breath hot, and the ice of Mygeeto clinging to your back like regret.

⸻

The drop onto Christophis was smoother than Mygeeto.

No bitter wind. No ice underfoot. Just the blue-tinged glass of a besieged city glowing beneath your boots, and the hum of LAAT engines fading into the dusk.

You exhaled slowly.

For once, it didn’t fog the air.

The 501st was already dug in—half-built barricades, mounted cannons, troopers weaving through lines of duracrete rubble and smoldering droid parts. The camp smelled like burned plastoid and caf. And somehow… it didn’t feel like death.

Not yet.

You adjusted your gear and crossed into the center of the forward line, where a knot of officers stood around a portable holo table. A tall familiar figure turned toward you before you could announce yourself.

“General [Last Name], I presume?” the man asked with a bright smirk and a heavy Core accent. “You’re just in time. Dinner’s still warm—if you like ration bricks and bad company.”

General Anakin Skywalker. He grinned at you like an old friend.

You blinked. “I… wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.”

“You’re not coming from the High Council,” Anakin replied, clearly picking up on your edge. “You’re here to fight. That’s more than enough for us.”

A few troopers nearby chuckled. One even offered a small wave before returning to repairs on a nearby speeder. You weren’t used to clones acting so… relaxed.

Anakin slung an arm across the shoulders of the nearest officer, a clone with a blond buzz cut, blue markings on his pauldron, and eyes sharp with experience.

“This is Captain Rex,” Anakin said. “He keeps me alive and makes sure I don’t get court-martialed.”

Rex offered his hand. “It’s good to have another General on the line. The men could use someone steady. Master Skywalker tends to… improvise.”

“I prefer the term creative solutionist.”

You shook Rex’s hand firmly. “I’ve been assigned to assist for the duration of this campaign. Support, field command, and lightsaber damage control, apparently.”

“Don’t let the last bit worry you,” Rex said, voice warm but measured. “Most of us like having a Jedi around. Just don’t get yourself shot trying to do everything alone.”

You hesitated. That’s the only way I’ve ever done it.

But instead, you said, “Copy that, Captain.”

Anakin returned with two ration packs and tossed one at you.

“Come on,” he said. “Briefing starts in ten. Might as well eat something before the next artillery barrage.”

You caught the ration and followed him into the makeshift war room. The 501st felt… alive. Not like a machine, or a tool. Like people. Clones joked with each other between shifts. Someone was fixing a vibro-guitar in a corner. Laughter drifted through the halls of war like smoke.

He studied you for a moment while chewing a bite of compressed stew.

“So,” he said, grinning. “You’re Windu’s kid.”

You blinked. “I’m not his kid.”

“Please,” Anakin scoffed. “You practically are. He used to lecture me about setting a better example because you were watching.”

You smirked despite yourself. “He does that with everyone. It’s how he shows affection. Judgement equals love.”

“I don’t think he’s capable of affection,” Anakin said, half-muttering into his rations. “But you? You’re the exception.”

You leaned back against the wall, tone softening. “He trained me to be better. Sharper. Not just strong with a saber, but… clear. Even when I didn’t want to be.”

Anakin tilted his head. “He proud of you?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Not that he says it, but… yeah. I think so.”

He grinned. “Bet he didn’t love you getting assigned to me.”

You laughed under your breath. “Not exactly. He said, ‘Skywalker needs someone with both instinct and control. Be that someone.’ Then he stared at me for an uncomfortably long time.”

Anakin chuckled. “Yep. That sounds like Mace.”

You took another bite of your ration and glanced around the lively camp—clones talking, techs laughing, life humming even in the lull before battle.

“Feels different here,” you said.

Anakin raised an eyebrow. “Good different?”

You nodded. “Yeah. It feels like… they’re not just soldiers.”

He offered a quiet smile. “They’re not. You’ll see.”

And you would.

But not before the war reached its cold fingers toward you once again.

You ate in silence while Skywalker outlined the next assault—tight push through Separatist-occupied towers, with limited casualties expected. He spoke quickly, clearly, and didn’t interrupt you when you pointed out structural weak points or alternate flanking positions. In fact, he nodded along, visibly impressed.

Anakin raised a brow. “Did you and Mace ever clash?”

You hesitated. “He sees obedience as strength. I’ve always… leaned more toward instinct.”

Skywalker grinned. “Good. You’ll fit in just fine here.”

And for the first time in weeks—since the icy silence of Bacara’s helmet and Mundi’s cold dismissal—you felt the tension in your chest loosen. Just a little.

⸻

The Separatists had fortified the western spires overnight, turning crystalline towers into sniper nests and droid chokepoints. A slow siege was no longer an option. The 501st was going in—fast, loud, and all in.

“Your unit’s with me,” Rex said, voice clipped as he secured his helmet. “Skywalker and Torrent Squad are flanking left. We punch through the center, collapse the staging platform, and pull back before reinforcements converge.”

You adjusted the grip on your lightsaber hilt, watching the blue blade snap to life with a hum. “You lead. I follow.”

Rex gave a short nod, visor glinting in the low light. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. He moved with the weight of trust already earned—his men mirrored his focus, his readiness.

You hadn’t seen command like this on Mygeeto. Not from Ki-Adi-Mundi. And definitely not from Bacara.

The gunships roared over the skyline.

“Drop in ten!” a trooper shouted, clinging to the side rail of the LAAT. You stood beside Rex as the bay doors opened, revealing the shimmering battlefield below—glass and stone, fire and blue lightning crashing from tower to tower.

The LAAT banked hard and you leapt, landing in the center of a collapsing avenue as blaster fire rained down from the towers above. Rex hit the ground a second later, blasters up, already shouting to his men.

“Push forward! Second squad—cover the left lane!”

You spun your saber, deflecting bolts as the first wave of droids charged. The 501st advanced in perfect coordination—like flowing water, shifting and reforming around obstacles as if they’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

You slipped into the rhythm with them, striking hard through advancing B1s, clearing the rooftops with mid-air leaps, redirecting sniper fire with narrow, deliberate swings. The clones covered you, trusted you, fell into sync with you like you’d been fighting beside them for years.

No hesitation. No resistance.

Just trust.

You didn’t know what that felt like until now.

At the front of the charge, Rex cleared the last of the droid forces on the platform with brutal efficiency. You landed beside him, both of you breathing hard but steady, the wind howling through broken towers.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

“Good work,” he said, like it was fact, not flattery.

“You too,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

A pause stretched between you. Not silence, not in the middle of war—but something else. A mutual understanding. The beginning of something… not yet defined.

The comm crackled.

“501st—fall back to Rally Point Aurek. Enemy movement on the east ridge.”

“Copy,” Rex said, turning away. “Let’s move.”

You followed without hesitation, eyes scanning the horizon.

War didn’t allow time for reflection. But as you fell into step with Rex—side by side—you couldn’t help but think:

This felt different.

⸻

The sky over Christophis had finally quieted.

The battle was won—for now. The towers no longer pulsed with enemy fire, the droids had retreated deeper into the city’s core, and the crystals that jutted from the landscape reflected nothing but the dull orange haze of a weary sunrise.

You walked side-by-side with Rex, the only sound between you the soft crunch of shattered glass beneath boots and armor. This was your fourth perimeter sweep since the offensive. He didn’t talk much. You didn’t either.

Still, it wasn’t silence. It was… companionable.

“I thought Jedi preferred peace,” Rex said after a while, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“I do,” you replied, stepping over a cracked durasteel beam. “But I’m good at war.”

Rex turned slightly to look at you. “You don’t sound proud of that.”

You shrugged. “I’m not.”

Another beat passed. You slowed your pace, scanning an alley where the shadows felt too thick. Just scavengers. Nothing moved.

“You were better in battle than I expected,” Rex added. “The way you covered the west flank—that was clean. Calculated.”

You snorted. “I thought Jedi weren’t supposed to be calculating.”

He paused at the edge of a shattered courtyard. “You’re not like the others I’ve seen.”

You tilted your head. “That a compliment?”

Rex didn’t answer right away. He just looked out over the city, where blue light still shimmered in the air like a war that refused to die completely.

“I don’t think you care whether it is or not,” he said eventually.

That earned a quiet laugh from you. “Now that sounds like a compliment.”

The moment stretched a little longer this time. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just a thread of something starting to pull taut between you, quiet and unspoken.

Then the comms chirped.

:: This is General Kenobi. 212th battalion has entered the theater. Coordinates sent. ::

Rex exhaled through his nose. “Great. The cavalry.”

You smirked. “Not a fan of the beard?”

“He’s fine. His men are loud.”

From the high ridge, you could already see them—yellow-marked troops of the 212th fanning out like wildfire, Obi-Wan walking ahead with the patient authority of someone used to saving the galaxy before breakfast.

“General Kenobi,” you called as you approached. “You’re late.”

Kenobi raised a brow. “Fashionably. You’re holding up well, Padawan.”

“Knight, actually,” you said, quirking a brow. “But thanks for the demotion.”

Rex nodded politely as Cody jogged up beside him. The two commanders exchanged a quick, wordless handshake—the kind only shared between soldiers who’d bled on similar soil.

“Looks like things just got louder,” you murmured.

Rex glanced sideways at you. “You sure that’s a bad thing?”

You didn’t answer.

⸻

Next Chapter

Made for amazing friend and supporter @meneliltare as a tiny gift for a monthly Buymeacoffee donation❤️ Thank you so much for your help and for being a source of support, inspiration, and smiles for me! For bringing Barduil light and stability in my life🫂 This picture was inspired by our "zoo" conversation, hope you don't mind))

Okay, where is the Mace Windu fandom? Because he’s my favorite Jedi, and I was telling that to some Star Wars fans ik and they looked at me like I was crazy. I need proof we exist.

My darling I've said this before but you deserve so many more likes, every time i read one of your fics im genuinely expecting it to have thousands of likes on it and it usually has like 20? If i could like every single one of your works 100 times i would :)

Okay but imagine Rex's reactions to the reader wearing his helmet. Like, he walks in and the readers like 🧍‍♀️ and he's like 🧍‍♀️. And then everyone around them is confused bc why is this even happening in the first place (maybe its a prank? Idk 👉👈)

Also i know i said Rex but if you want to include any others please do lol i would love to see your interpretation of this with others

<3

Ahhh you’re the absolute sweetest—thank you so much for the kind words, seriously!! I couldn’t resist this prompt , so I went ahead and did the whole command batch’s reactions too.

⸻

CAPTAIN REX

He’d just finished a debrief. He was tired, armor scuffed, and brain fogged from a long string of missions. All he wanted was to collect his helmet and find a quiet place to decompress.

Instead, he opened the door to the barracks and found you standing in the middle of the room.

Wearing his helmet.

You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, arms at your sides, posture too stiff, visor pointed directly at the door like you’d been caught red-handed.

Rex froze mid-step. His eyes flicked to your body, then to the helmet, then back again. The room was dead silent.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

It felt like some kind of unspoken standoff.

When he finally found his voice, it came out neutral but clipped. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my helmet?”

You reached up and lifted it just slightly off your head, enough to reveal your eyes. “I was trying to understand what it’s like… carrying all this responsibility. All the weight. I figured the helmet was part of it.”

Rex blinked.

He should have been annoyed. His helmet was an extension of his identity, not something he usually let anyone touch, let alone wear. But something in your voice—sincere, tinged with dry humor—softened the moment.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

You slid the helmet off entirely and held it to your chest. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that.”

Rex crossed the room and took it from your hands, eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary. “You can ask next time. I might still say no, but… you can ask.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Noted, Captain.”

Later, Rex would sit on the edge of his bunk, polishing the helmet with extra care, thinking about the way you’d stood there. How serious you’d looked. And how much more complicated everything felt now.

⸻

COMMANDER CODY

Cody wasn’t used to surprises. He didn’t like them.

So when he walked into the clone officer quarters and found you perched on his bunk—wearing his helmet and staring at the floor like some kind of haunted statue—his brain stalled for a moment.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t say a word.

Cody stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—likely the same thing you were: how did this situation even come to exist?

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

You slowly lifted your head. “No. I just… wanted to know what it was like. To be you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “By wearing my helmet?”

You lifted it off, your hair a little mussed from the fit. “It felt… commanding. Intimidating. Also slightly claustrophobic.”

Cody crossed the room, took the helmet from your hands, and inspected it like you might’ve done something to compromise its integrity. “That’s about accurate.”

You stood. “Did I at least look cool?”

Cody gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind that rarely made it past his lips. “You looked like you were trying very hard to be me. But points for effort.”

He turned to go, helmet under one arm. As he walked out, he muttered, “Don’t tell Kenobi.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

COMMANDER FOX

Fox was already in a foul mood. The Senate hearings had run late. A group of Senators had argued about appropriations for nearly three hours. The bureaucrats hadn’t approved the funding he needed, and to make things worse, someone had tried to hand him a fruit basket on the way out.

He just wanted to grab his datapad and leave.

Instead, he stepped into his office and stopped cold.

You were behind his desk, arms folded. His helmet was on your head, slightly crooked from the weight.

Fox did not say anything.

You didn’t, either.

You watched each other like two predators in a silent, high-stakes standoff.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then explain.”

You pulled the helmet off and set it gently on the desk. “I wanted to see if it felt as heavy as it looks. Thought maybe I’d understand what it’s like… to be you.”

Fox blinked. His voice dropped lower. “That helmet’s been in more battles than most Senators have meetings.”

You met his gaze, dead serious. “Exactly. That’s why I put it on.”

He walked over and took the helmet in both hands. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of the desk between you, his gloved fingers tracing a scratch across the paint.

“You look good in red,” he said at last, so quietly you barely caught it.

Then he was gone.

You stood alone, trying not to think too hard about the heat blooming in your chest.

⸻

COMMANDER WOLFFE

You’d made the mistake of trying it out in the open—when Wolffe was still around.

You thought he was in a meeting. He wasn’t.

The moment he stepped into the hallway and saw you marching in a slow circle, wearing his helmet and muttering, “I don’t trust anyone. Not even my own shadow. Jedi are the worst,” it was already too late to escape.

You froze mid-step when you noticed him watching you.

Wolffe didn’t say a word.

You pivoted awkwardly. “I was… doing a character study.”

“You were mocking me.”

“Not entirely.”

He crossed his arms, expression hard, but his voice was lighter than you expected. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You pulled the helmet off. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got presence.”

Wolffe walked forward, took the helmet, and gave you a look somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You forgot the part where I sigh and glare at everything in sight.”

You nodded, solemn. “Next time, I’ll prepare better.”

He rolled his eyes, turned to leave, and muttered over his shoulder, “Next time, do it where I can’t see you.”

But he was smiling.

⸻

COMMANDER BLY

You were crouched on the floor of the gunship hangar when Bly found you.

You hadn’t meant for him to catch you. It was supposed to be a private moment—a little playful impersonation you were going to spring on him later.

But there you were, wearing his helmet, whispering dramatically into the echoing space of the hangar, “General Secura, I would die for you. I would let the whole world burn if you asked.”

You turned and saw him standing behind you.

There was no saving this.

“Hi,” you said, voice muffled behind the helmet.

Bly stared. “What… exactly are you doing?”

You straightened, taking off the helmet. “I was… immersing myself in your worldview. For empathy purposes.”

He squinted. “You were crawling around whispering to yourself in my voice.”

You nodded. “It’s called method acting.”

Bly took the helmet from you like it was fragile. “Next time, try asking.”

“Would you have let me?”

He paused. “…Probably not.”

“Then I regret nothing.”

Bly looked at the helmet, then at you. His expression was unreadable—but his voice was warmer when he said, “Try not to let General Secura catch you doing that. Or she will ask questions.”

⸻

COMMANDER THORN

You were caught mid-spin, dramatically turning to aim Thorn’s DC-17 blaster at an imaginary threat.

His helmet covered your face, tilted slightly sideways from the weight. You didn’t realize he’d walked into the room until you heard the low, unimpressed voice behind you.

“Unless you’re planning to fight off an uprising by yourself, I’d recommend not touching my gear.”

You froze.

Lowered the blaster.

Removed the helmet slowly.

“…Hi.”

Thorn’s arms were crossed, and though his tone was flat, his eyes glittered with amusement. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

“I would’ve. But at least I wouldn’t have walked in on… whatever that was.”

You held up the helmet like an offering. “Do I at least get points for form?”

Thorn stepped forward, plucked the helmet from your hands, and gave you a once-over that lingered slightly too long. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”

And then he walked off, still shaking his head, muttering, “Force help me, they’re getting bolder.”

⸻

COMMANDER NEYO

You weren’t even doing anything dramatic this time. Just sitting on a crate in the hangar bay, wearing Commander Neyo’s helmet with a calmness that probably made it weirder.

He entered mid-conversation with a deck officer and paused mid-sentence when he saw you.

Neyo’s reputation was infamous—no-nonsense, silent, rarely seen without his helmet. So when you tried it on just to see what the fuss was about, you didn’t expect him to walk in.

Now he was staring at you.

Expressionless.

Silent.

Unmoving.

You slowly lifted the helmet off. “Commander.”

“Where did you find it?”

“…In your locker.”

He blinked once. “You broke into my locker?”

“…Hypothetically.”

The deck officer excused himself quickly.

Neyo walked over, took the helmet without saying a word, and stared down at you for a long moment. Then, just as you were starting to sweat—

“I hope you didn’t try the voice modulator. It’s calibrated to my pitch.”

You blinked. “…So you’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t know if you were about to get reported or flirted with. And somehow, that was very Neyo.

⸻

COMMANDER GREE

You’d barely slipped the helmet on when Gree stepped into the staging area, datapad in hand, ready to give a mission briefing.

He stopped. His gaze snapped up.

You, standing in the center of the room in his jungle-green helmet, stared back at him like a guilty cadet.

There was a long pause.

“Is that… my helmet?” he asked, like he needed verbal confirmation of what his eyes were clearly seeing.

You nodded slowly. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”

He tilted his head. “You know it’s loaded with recon tech calibrated to my ocular patterns?”

“…No.”

“Technically, that means it could backfire and scramble your brain if you activated it.”

“…I didn’t touch any buttons.”

Gree blinked, then grinned. “Good. I’d hate to scrape you off the floor. Again.”

You took the helmet off and passed it back. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

Gree shrugged. “Only because it’s you.”

The next day, he left a field helmet—not his own—on your bunk with a sticky note: “Test this one. Lower risk of neural frying.”

⸻

COMMANDER BACARA

You’d always known Bacara was a little intense.

So maybe wearing his helmet was a bad idea.

You didn’t expect him to walk into the armory while you were trying it on. You especially didn’t expect him to freeze mid-stride and go completely still—like a wolf spotting prey.

“Take it off,” he said, voice sharp.

You complied immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you added quickly, holding it out with both hands. “Just curious.”

He took it from you in silence. His expression didn’t change. But his hands moved carefully, almost reverently.

“That helmet’s been through Geonosis,” he said quietly. “Through mud and fire. My brothers died wearing helmets just like it.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up. “I know. Just… don’t try it again. Not without asking.”

You gave a small nod. “I won’t.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “You did look decent in it, though.”

He left before you could respond.

⸻

COMMANDER DOOM

You’d slipped Doom’s helmet on while helping reorganize the command tent. He wasn’t around—or so you thought.

You were mid-sentence in a very bad impression of his voice when you heard someone behind you.

“Is that how I sound to you?”

You turned, startled, and found Doom leaning against the tent flap with one brow raised.

You straightened awkwardly. “I was, uh, trying to get into your mindset.”

He snorted. “My mindset?”

“You know. Calm. Steady. Smiling in the face of doom—ironically.”

He walked over, arms folded, and tilted his head as you pulled the helmet off. “Did it work?”

“I think I’ve achieved inner peace.”

He chuckled. “Keep the helmet. It suits you.”

You stared.

“I’m joking,” he added, already walking away.

You weren’t so sure.

⸻

Hi! I was wondering if you could do a TBB x Fem!Reader +any other clones of your choice, where they keep using pet names in mandoa like cyar'ika, mesh'la, and maybe even riduur?(because they might’ve gotten accidentally married? Love those tropes)

but the reader has no idea what they mean and that they’re pet names or that the batch likes her. Eventually she finds out of course and a bunch of stuttering cute confessions?

Your writing is so amazing and i literally can’t get enough of it! Xx

“Say It Again?”

TBB x Fem!Reader

You had gotten used to the way clones talked — the gruffness, the slang, the camaraderie. But ever since you’d been working more closely with Clone Force 99, you’d noticed something… different.

They used weird words around you. Words you didn’t hear other troopers saying.

Hunter always greeted you with a gentle “Cyar’ika,” accompanied by that intense little half-smile of his.

Wrecker would beam and shout, “Mesh’la! You came!” every time you entered a room — like you were some goddess descending from the stars.

Crosshair, as always, was smug and cool, throwing in a soft “Riduur…” under his breath when he thought you weren’t listening, though you never figured out what it meant. He often smirked when you looked confused, and somehow that made it worse.

Even Tech, who rarely used nicknames at all, had let slip a casual “You’re quite remarkable, mesh’la,” when you helped him debug his datapad. He didn’t look up, but you felt the heat in his voice.

And Echo? Sweet, dependable Echo — he was the least subtle of them all.

“You alright, cyar’ika?”

“You look tired, cyar’ika.”

“Get some rest, cyar’ika.”

You were starting to think “Cyar’ika” meant your actual name.

But something was off. The others never used those words with each other. Only with you.

So, naturally, you asked Rex.

And Rex choked on his caf.

“You—what did Crosshair call you?” he coughed, wiping his chin.

You repeated it: “Rid…uur? I think? I dunno. He said it real low.”

Rex gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen and then rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Riduur means… spouse. As in… wife. It’s what you call your partner.”

You froze. “What?!”

“And cyar’ika?” he continued, amused. “Sweetheart. Mesh’la is ‘beautiful.’ They’re… Mando’a pet names. Very affectionate.”

The blushing.

The flashbacks.

All those words… those looks… Tech calling you remarkable like it was a scientific fact, Crosshair smirking like he had secrets, Echo’s voice dropping a full octave every time he said cyar’ika…

You marched straight into the Havoc Marauder like a woman on a mission — and promptly forgot how to speak when all five of them looked up at you.

“…You okay, mesh’la?” Hunter asked gently.

You blinked. Your voice cracked. “…You’ve been calling me sweetheart?”

The room went dead silent.

Echo dropped his ration bar.

Wrecker panicked. “Wait—you didn’t know?”

Crosshair chuckled and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Told you she didn’t know.”

Tech frowned at him. “Statistically, the odds of her knowing were—”

“You called me your wife,” you said, pointing at Crosshair like he’d committed a war crime.

He shrugged. “Didn’t hear you complain.”

You stammered something completely unintelligible, covering your face with both hands, and Wrecker let out the loudest, happiest laugh you’d ever heard. “So… does that mean you like us back?”

You peeked through your fingers. “…Us?”

Hunter stepped forward slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “We all… kinda do. Like you. A lot.”

You were red. Like, fruit-on-Ryloth red. “You’re telling me five elite clones have been flirting with me in another language this whole time?!”

“…Yes,” they all mumbled at once.

Crosshair grinned like he’d won a bet. “So… Riduur?”

“Riduur?” Crosshair repeated, lifting a brow like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just dropped a romantic thermal detonator right in front of everyone.

You stared at him. At all of them.

Hunter’s quiet guilt. Echo’s embarrassed fidgeting. Wrecker’s hopeful puppy-dog smile. Tech’s analytical interest. And Crosshair’s smug little smirk that you really wanted to slap off his face… or maybe kiss.

You swallowed. “I—I need a second.”

And then promptly turned on your heel and walked right back out of the Marauder.

⸻

You spent the rest of the day spiraling.

Sweetheart. Beautiful. Wife.

They’d been calling you those for weeks. Months, maybe. You were out here thinking it was some fun cultural expression or inside joke you weren’t in on—and it turns out you were the joke. The target. Of five clone commandos’… affection?

It didn’t feel like a joke, though. It felt sincere. Soft. Safe.

And scary.

Because you liked them. All of them. Differently, but genuinely. The thought of them caring about you—of whispering pet names they grew up hearing in the most intimate, personal ways—made your chest ache in a way you didn’t know how to handle.

⸻

The next day, you avoided them.

The next day, they let you.

The third day, Hunter found you in the mess hall, sat beside you without a word, and handed you a steaming mug of caf.

You looked at him.

He didn’t speak right away. Then: “We’re sorry. If we made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you blurted out. “I just… didn’t know how to react. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Hunter nodded, eyes kind. “We can stop. The nicknames, I mean.”

You hesitated. “No. I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiled, just a little. “You sure?”

You nodded. “I think I like them. I just… I want to know what they mean now.”

⸻

So, one by one, the boys showed you.

Wrecker said “mesh’la” every time you helped him carry heavy crates, with a goofy grin that made your stomach flip.

Echo said “cyar’ika” after every quiet conversation, letting the word linger like a promise he wasn’t ready to say aloud yet.

Tech, precise as always, began to offer direct translations.

“You look stunning today, mesh’la—objectively, of course.”

Crosshair didn’t stop with “riduur.” He started calling you “cyar’ika” too—softly, in rare unguarded moments—and he never looked away when he said it. Like he meant it. Like he knew what it was doing to you.

And Hunter? Hunter started saying “ner cyar’ika.” My sweetheart.

⸻

It wasn’t instant.

But slowly, their voices stopped making you flustered—and started making you feel home.

You started saying their names softer. Started touching their arms when you passed. Started blushing less… and smiling more.

And one day, while standing beside Wrecker during maintenance, you reached up on your toes, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Thanks, cyare.”

He blinked. His whole face lit up like a nova. “You said it back!”

Later, you caught Echo outside the ship. Nervous, swaying slightly on his heels. You pressed your hand into his and whispered, “You can keep calling me cyar’ika, you know.”

He looked down at you with wide eyes. “You really don’t mind?”

You shook your head. “I like it.”

And Tech, when you repeated “mesh’la” with a teasing little lilt, glanced at you and—just this once—forgot what he was doing.

Even Crosshair dropped his toothpick when you looked him dead in the eye and whispered: “You keep calling me your riduur. What does that make you, then?”

He blinked. Once. Then smiled. Really smiled. “Yours.”

⸻

By the time you curled up beside Hunter one quiet night, your head on his shoulder and his hand tracing slow circles on your back, he murmured “ner cyar’ika” and you didn’t freeze or stammer.

You just smiled.

Because now you knew.

And you finally, finally understood that you’d never been the joke.

You’d always been the reason they smiled.

“Only One Target”

Captain Rex x Sith Assassin!Reader

Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.

⸻

Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.

You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.

Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.

“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.

“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.

Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.

Skywalker.

Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.

Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”

Simple. Clean.

But Jedi never made things easy.

A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.

Perfect.

Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”

You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.

But Skywalker—he came for you.

He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.

“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.

“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”

“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”

Your blades clashed.

He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.

Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.

You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

“Who sent you?” he snarled.

“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”

His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.

This wasn’t going to plan.

Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”

“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.

“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”

You turned—but it was already too late.

A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.

Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.

Coward.

You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.

And in front of them stood a clone captain.

Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.

He didn’t look at you like a person.

He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.

You smirked through the pain.

“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t shoot you either.

⸻

The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.

You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.

Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.

“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.

You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”

He stopped pacing, turned on you.

“Who sent you?”

“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”

He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”

He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.

“I will get answers out of you.”

You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.

“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”

“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”

He stared at you for a long, tense beat.

Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.

“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.

Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”

The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.

⸻

Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.

You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.

“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”

Rex didn’t move.

“I don’t have time for your games.”

“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”

“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”

You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”

Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.

“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.

“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”

Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.

“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”

You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.

“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”

He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.

Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.

“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”

Your smirk softened. Just a bit.

“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”

“Convenient.”

“True.”

The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.

“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”

He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.

You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.

“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”

He paused in the doorway, head tilted.

“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”

The door hissed closed behind him.

But you knew.

You always knew.

⸻

Captain Rex hadn’t come back.

Not once.

And it was driving you crazy.

Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.

But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.

Something had changed.

The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.

You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Then the alarms started.

Again.

You stood.

Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.

Then the scream of a clone dying.

You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.

So dramatic.

She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.

“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”

You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”

She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”

You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.

“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”

Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”

She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.

Chaos.

And in chaos… came opportunity.

Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.

And you intended to walk through it.

You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”

But you were already lunging at him.

The fight was brutal.

He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.

But you were sharper.

He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.

You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.

Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.

You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:

“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”

Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.

He flinched like you’d slapped him.

You smirked, breath warm at his ear.

“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”

And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.

Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.

“Damn it.”

⸻

The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.

You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.

You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.

The kiss.

You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.

Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.

Maybe it was to mock him.

Or maybe it was something else.

You pushed the thought away.

The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.

He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.

The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.

“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”

“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.

“For now.”

Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”

You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”

Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”

“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”

Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”

You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”

“They were in your way.”

You were quiet.

Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.

“You toyed with them.”

The words sliced like ice.

“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”

You tensed.

Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.

Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”

Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”

“You failed the objective.”

His voice rose like thunder.

“You kissed the enemy.”

You blinked once. Slowly.

“I did,” you said.

Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.

He stepped closer.

“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”

“I haven’t.”

He leaned in, towering.

“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”

You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”

He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.

“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”

He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.

“Next time, you kill him.”

You didn’t answer.

Because you weren’t sure you could.

⸻

The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.

Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.

He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.

But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Back in that hallway.

Back in the smoke.

Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.

It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.

Instead, she kissed him.

And now she was out there.

Alive.

And he hated that he kept thinking about her.

Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.

Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”

“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”

Rex shifted. “Just processing.”

“Hm.”

Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.

“She messed with your head,” he said casually.

Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”

“She kissed you, didn’t she?”

That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.

Anakin grinned, triumphant.

“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”

Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”

“That’s not evidence of anything.”

“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”

Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”

Skywalker’s brow furrowed.

“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”

A pause. Tense. Thick.

Rex looked away.

“I hesitated.”

Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“…I don’t know.”

It was the only honest thing he could say.

Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”

He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.

“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”

Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”

Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.

“You find her.”

A beat.

“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”

Rex nodded once.

But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.

⸻

“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.

Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”

Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”

Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”

That got his attention.

Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”

“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”

“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”

Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.

Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—

He clenched his jaw.

“She’s bait.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.

“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”

But he wasn’t sure he believed that.

Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.

She wouldn’t hide.

Not unless she was hiding from them too.

⸻

You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.

Every shadow was a threat.

Every sound could be them.

You hadn’t slept in days.

Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.

He hadn’t even tried.

You were nothing to him now.

Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.

And yet, part of you was relieved.

No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.

But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.

You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.

Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.

Rex.

You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.

To his defiance.

His strength.

His disgust.

That heat in his stare when you kissed him.

You’d told yourself it was just a game.

So why did it still make your chest ache?

You swallowed hard.

And then you felt it.

A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.

And getting closer.

“They found me.”

⸻

Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.

“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.

Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”

Rex ignored them.

“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.

Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”

“No.”

But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.

This woman was running.

And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.

⸻

The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.

Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.

She should’ve known better.

She was good.

But he was better.

A flash of movement to his right.

He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.

And there she was.

Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.

She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.

In fact—she looked tired.

“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.

The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.

“Drop the weapon,” he barked.

You raised your hands. Slowly.

“I’m unarmed.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”

“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”

You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”

Rex didn’t answer.

He studied you.

No backup. No escape route. No fight.

This wasn’t an ambush.

This wasn’t a trap.

This was… surrender.

“Where’s your army?” he asked.

“Gone.”

“Dooku?”

You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”

“And Ventress?”

A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”

That, at least, made sense.

Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.

“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.

“Why should I believe you?”

You looked at him.

Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“I don’t care if you do.”

Another beat of silence.

And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.

“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”

He stared at you.

One word. One plea.

“Please.”

It wasn’t seductive.

It wasn’t tactical.

It was real.

And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.

The wind howled between you.

And he… didn’t pull the trigger.

Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.

The truth sat thick between them.

“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”

There was a pause.

Then static cracked and—

“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.

“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.

Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”

Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.

When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.

“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”

Rex followed without a word.

⸻

The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.

You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.

Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.

Always watching.

“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.

“No.”

“Good.”

You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.

“But you didn’t call me in.”

“I should have.”

“But you didn’t.”

You looked up. Eyes meeting his.

And for the first time, neither of you looked away.

“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”

You exhaled, slowly.

“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”

Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.

You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”

The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.

Then—

“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.

You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”

“A dangerous one.”

“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”

You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”

Rex looked at you then. Really looked.

You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”

He flinched at that.

“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”

Rex didn’t respond right away.

Then, finally—

“I believe you.”

The words hung in the air like a confession.

You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”

He hesitated.

“…I don’t know yet.”

Another pause.

Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.

“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”

His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”

You smiled. “Did it work?”

He didn’t answer.

You were closer now. Too close.

And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.

But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.

Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”

He met your gaze.

“I don’t have time to wonder.”

“Maybe you should start.”

You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.

Then, at the last second, you pulled back.

“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.

Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.

And outside, the storm raged.

⸻

Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.

“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.

Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”

Fives smirked. “He found her.”

“And didn’t bring her in.”

They shared a look.

“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.

Fives clicked his tongue.

“I think he hopes not.”

⸻

The storm had passed.

The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.

You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.

Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.

You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.

“They’ll know soon enough.”

“I know.”

“They’ll think you let me go.”

“I did.”

Finally, you turned to him.

Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.

“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.

“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”

You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you stepped forward. Closer.

“This is the part where I disappear again.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step forward.

Didn’t say stay.

Because he couldn’t.

You leaned in, eyes searching his.

“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”

And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.

Just real.

Warm.

A goodbye.

Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.

And then you were gone.

Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.

Like you’d never been there at all.

Except he’d never forget.

⸻

Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”

Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”

Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.

“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.

“She was never there,” Rex said.

Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”

“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”

They watched him.

Said nothing.

Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.

And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.

A smear.

No, not a smear.

Lipstick.

Fives blinked.

Then grinned like a menace.

But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.

And muttered without looking back—

“Don’t.”