Latest Posts by areyoufuckingcrazy - Page 4

“Side Streets and Solitude”

Commander Neyo x Reader

You saw him before he ever ordered a drink.

Most clones came into 79’s loud, rowdy, aching for some distraction. But he walked in alone—always alone—helmet tucked under his arm. He wore that long coat like armor, even off duty, shoulders squared like he was ready for a fight no one else could see. He never smiled. Not once.

You didn’t ask his name. You just called him “the usual?” and he’d nod once, wordless. Whisky. Neat. Never touched the beer.

He sat at the far end of the bar, not too close to anyone, but never hiding. Just… existing in the silence between laughs and music and the rest of the Guard forgetting the war for five minutes. He never joined them. Just drank. Eyes heavy. Face unreadable.

You learned to stop wiping the counter when you passed him. He didn’t like the sudden movement. You figured that out after the first night, when his hand twitched toward the blaster holstered at his side.

Some clones called him Neyo. Commander. You didn’t use it. He didn’t correct you either way.

“You ever smile?” you asked once, half-joking, late in the night when the place had thinned out and the hum of the room softened. You were stacking glasses, looking at him across the lip of the bar.

He didn’t look up. “Not much to smile about.”

You let that hang. You knew a man carrying ghosts when you saw one.

“Yeah. I get that.”

He glanced at you then, just once. A flicker. Like he didn’t expect to be understood. You didn’t need to tell him your story—he didn’t want it, probably—but that look said he clocked it. That you weren’t like the others either.

You lived in the same city, drank the same watered-down liquor, but both of you were walking some kind of empty road no one else could see.

For a long time, you just stood in silence. Him with his drink. You with your rag and your thoughts.

Finally, he said, “I come here because it’s quiet. Even when it’s loud. You know?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It’s a good place to feel alone. But not… completely.”

He blinked, slow. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He didn’t say thank you. You didn’t expect him to. But he came back the next night. And the next.

Always alone. Always quiet. But now, when he sat down, he looked at you first.

Not a smile. But maybe something close.

⸻

He didn’t come back for two weeks.

You didn’t ask where he went. You knew better than to ask questions like that. Especially with the GAR—especially with him.

But when he came back, he had blood on his gloves. Not his. You could tell by the way he moved.

You poured his drink before he reached the bar.

“Rough one?” you asked, voice low, like if you spoke too loud it might break whatever fragile tether kept him standing upright.

He sat. Took the glass. Didn’t answer right away.

“Lost a good man.”

You nodded. “They always are.”

A long silence followed. The kind that settled in your chest.

“They say we’re not supposed to get attached.” His voice was flat, but his hands were tight around the glass. “Doesn’t matter. You feel it anyway.”

You didn’t say I’m sorry. That phrase meant nothing in a place like this. Instead, you grabbed another glass and poured one for yourself.

“To the good ones,” you said, raising it halfway.

He didn’t lift his, just looked at you. Then, after a second, knocked it back.

That became a new ritual. Not every time. Just sometimes. When the grief sat too heavy in his coat.

Over time, you learned the little things.

He preferred the quiet of the back booth when the place wasn’t packed. He never danced, never flirted, didn’t touch the food. When the music got too loud or too fast, he’d drift outside for air. You started meeting him out there with a second drink, standing beside him under the flickering streetlamp, neither of you talking unless the silence needed it.

“Most people see clones as one thing,” you said once, after a few too many customers had made too many dumb jokes about regs. “But you’re all different. You especially.”

He stared ahead, helmet under his arm again, jaw tight. “Doesn’t matter if we are. Not to the people who give the orders.”

You looked at him. “Does it matter to you?”

That made him pause.

“Yes,” he said finally. Then added, “I remember every face I’ve lost. That’s how I know I’m still me.”

And that—more than any long-winded speech—told you everything you needed to know about him.

He wasn’t a man of many words. But what he gave, he meant.

And still, he never stayed long. One night here, three days gone. A week of silence, then another appearance. No promises. No warnings.

But when he did come in, he’d glance toward the bar before scanning the room. Like maybe, just maybe, he was hoping you’d still be there.

You always were.

One night, close to closing, the place was empty. Rain tapped at the windows, slow and rhythmic. Neyo was sitting at his usual spot, coat slung over the chair.

You brought him his drink, and this time, slid a datapad across the bar.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A list,” you said. “Of my shifts. So you don’t have to wonder.”

He looked at it. Then at you.

That unreadable look again.

You smiled. “I know you won’t always show up. But if you do… I’ll be here.”

His fingers grazed the pad, slow. He didn’t smile. But he held your gaze a little longer this time.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. A rare thing, that word.

You poured him another drink and stood across from him, matching his silence.

The war hadn’t ended. The streets were still cracked. The dreams were still broken. But for now, in this little corner of the galaxy, you both had somewhere to walk that wasn’t so lonely.

⸻

Neyo wasn’t the kind of man who noticed absence.

He was trained to move forward. To endure loss like gravity—constant, inevitable, unavoidable.

But when he walked into 79’s that night and saw someone else behind the bar, something shifted.

She was too talkative. Young. Smiled too much. Had never poured him a drink before, and made it obvious by asking, “What’ll it be, sir?”

Sir.

He blinked. Something cold crept up his spine, not fear, not anger—just dissonance.

He sat down anyway. Same stool. Same spot.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

She nodded, turned, poured. A splash too much.

He looked at the drink. Didn’t touch it.

You never asked what he wanted. You already knew.

“Is [Y/N] around?” he asked, voice low, forced casual.

The bartender blinked. “Oh—they called in sick tonight. First time I’ve worked with their section, actually.”

Called in sick.

He sat back slowly, fingers tightening just slightly on the glass. He told himself it didn’t matter. People got sick. People missed shifts.

But you never had before.

He stayed longer than usual that night, even though everything felt… wrong. The lights too bright. The music too upbeat. He didn’t finish his drink. Just let it sit there, the amber catching light, untouched and warm.

The new bartender tried to make conversation once—asked something about the war. He ignored her.

Eventually, he stood, paid without a word, and walked out into the rain.

He didn’t know where he was going until he got there—corner street, flickering streetlamp, just outside the side entrance. Where you used to stand with him when it got too loud.

You weren’t there, of course.

He leaned against the wall anyway.

Rain pattered onto his shoulders. Steam curled off the street like breath.

He didn’t understand it—why the night felt heavier without you in it. He didn’t have the words for that kind of absence. But it gnawed at him, that sudden space you left behind. The silence you weren’t filling.

He looked down at the datapad in his coat. The one with your shift list, still saved.

Tomorrow, you’d be back. Probably.

And if you weren’t… he didn’t want to think about that.

⸻

You came back on a quiet night.

No fanfare. No apology. Just walked in through the back door, tied your apron, and started cleaning a glass like you hadn’t missed a beat.

But Neyo saw it.

The way your eyes didn’t search for him first. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.

When he took his usual seat, you were already pouring his drink. But your hands moved slower.

“You were gone,” he said, voice steady.

You nodded. “Yeah. Needed a night.”

He didn’t reply. Just watched you slide the glass across to him, fingers brushing, not quite touching.

Then you said it—quietly, like it was a confession.

“I handed in my resignation.”

He blinked once. “What?”

“I start somewhere new next week. Smaller place. Little more out of the way. Less noise.” You looked at him, trying to read him like you always did, but his expression didn’t shift. “I just… I needed a change.”

A long silence followed. You hated the way it stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Where?”

You told him the name of the place. A lounge bar tucked into one of the upper levels—not exactly seedy, but not exactly clone-friendly either.

He stared at his drink. “They don’t serve clones there.”

Your breath caught. “Yeah, I know.”

Another silence.

“I didn’t choose it because of that,” you said quickly. “It’s just… different. It’s quiet. Thought maybe I’d try something new.”

He didn’t look at you.

“You won’t see me there,” he said plainly. Not cruel. Just fact.

You nodded. “I figured.”

You wanted to say more—to explain that it wasn’t about him, that you weren’t abandoning him, that the weight of every war-worn story and every heavy silence was starting to drown you. But you didn’t. Because that would be unfair. Because you knew what he’d say.

He lifted the glass and drank. Then sat it back down with a soft clink.

“When?”

“Three days.”

He gave a short nod.

You looked at him for a long time. “I’ll miss this.”

He didn’t answer.

But his jaw clenched. Just barely.

Then, softer than you’d ever heard from him: “So will I.”

That was the closest thing to goodbye you were ever going to get.

And somehow… it hurt more than if he’d said nothing at all.

⸻

It was your last shift.

The bar felt the same, but you didn’t. Everything had a weight to it now. The laughter, the music, even the way you wiped down the counter—it all carried finality.

And he was there.

Neyo showed up just before midnight. Sat at the end of the bar like always, helmet on the counter, armor dull with wear. He didn’t say anything when you slid him his drink. Just gave you a long look.

You didn’t need words tonight.

You served your last table, handed over the till, and untied your apron with tired fingers. The place was quieter than usual. The other bartender took over, giving you a soft wave as you shrugged into your coat.

You turned to leave—and saw him waiting at the door.

Outside, the street was cool and quiet. Your boots echoed against the duracrete. Neyo walked beside you, silent as a shadow.

“You didn’t have to wait,” you said softly.

He glanced over. “Didn’t want you walking alone.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re sweet when you’re trying not to be.”

He didn’t respond—but you could’ve sworn his jaw loosened, just a bit.

You walked in companionable silence, the kind that only came from two people who had said more in silence than they ever could aloud.

When you reached your building, you stopped at the steps and turned to him.

“If you ever need a drink…” you started, watching his face, “you’re welcome to come around.”

He stared at you. Not in the usual guarded way, but with something else in his eyes—something uncertain, almost… longing.

Then you added, “Want to come up?”

It hung there, a gentle offer, nothing more.

For a moment, you thought he’d refuse. It was written in his posture—the way he stood like he might turn away.

But then… he nodded.

You didn’t smile. Just opened the door and led the way.

Your apartment was small, cluttered, warm. You threw your coat over the back of the couch and kicked off your boots.

Neyo stood just inside the door, helmet under his arm like a shield he didn’t know where to put.

“You can sit,” you offered.

He did—hesitantly, armor creaking as he lowered himself onto the couch. You poured two drinks from a half-finished bottle on the counter and handed him one.

“You sure you’re off duty?” you teased lightly.

His eyes met yours over the rim of the glass. “I’m never off duty.”

You sat beside him, the air thick with things unsaid. His knee brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“Why’d you really wait for me?” you asked, voice softer now.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t want to regret not saying goodbye.”

You swallowed. “You saying goodbye now?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or practiced—it was urgent, restrained, the way a man kisses when he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get the chance again. Your fingers curled into his blacks, and his gloves dropped to the floor. The helmet followed. You pulled him closer, and for once, he didn’t resist.

His hands were calloused, unsure, but when they found your skin, they lingered like he was memorizing every inch. You guided him, slow but certain, until his barriers fell—not just the armor, but the weight he carried behind his eyes.

He wasn’t a soldier in that moment.

He was a man. Tired. Raw. Desperate for something real.

And you gave it to him.

Bittersweet. Fleeting.

The kind of night that lingers like the echo of a song you almost forgot—until it finds you again in the quiet.

His mouth was still warm against yours when he pulled back, breath shallow, eyes unreadable.

You stayed close, barely inches apart, your fingers still resting against the edge of his undersuit.

“Neyo,” you whispered, searching his face. “It doesn’t have to be goodbye.”

His jaw clenched. Not in anger—just habit. A response to something he didn’t know how to process.

He looked away, eyes dragging across the room like he was already retreating. Like he had to remind himself where he was. Who he was.

“I don’t get to stay,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I don’t have that kind of life.”

You leaned in again, gently, slowly, your hand coming up to rest against the side of his face. He didn’t pull away.

“I’m not asking for forever,” you said. “Just… don’t shut the door before you’ve even walked through it.”

He looked at you again, and something flickered behind his eyes. It wasn’t hope—but it was something close.

“I don’t want to leave and forget this ever happened,” you added. “I don’t want to pretend like you never came in out of the rain, like we didn’t sit under that streetlight all those nights like we were the only two people left in the world.”

His breath hitched—but barely.

“You don’t talk much,” you said softly, brushing your thumb just beneath his eye. “But you stayed. You showed up. Every time. That’s gotta mean something.”

Neyo closed his eyes, just for a second. When he opened them again, he didn’t speak. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it wasn’t a goodbye either.

And for someone like him, that was more than enough.

You stayed like that for a while—still dressed, still halfway caught in that space between war and peace, silence and what could be.

Then, finally, he spoke. A whisper. A truth you weren’t expecting.

“I’ll come find you.”

You nodded, even as your chest tightened. “Good.”

Because you weren’t sure when—or if—he would. But you believed him.

And maybe, for one of the first times in his life, so did he.

sort of headcanons? but also excuses to draw clone tiddies 🚶🏻

Hello! Not really a request but just some q’s i was wondering which clone do you like to write about the most? Are there any requests you’ve gotten you weren’t to sure about at first but ended up loving what you wrote? Hope you’re doing well and don’t mind the questions! Long time fan! X

I like writing about clones that don’t get a lot of love or are kind of misunderstood. I love grumpy clones or clones that seem a bit harsh.

Fox, Bacara, Neyo, and Sev are some of my favorites. They’ve all have interesting stories or rough reputations, so it’s fun to explore their sides more. While I don’t have many fics about them directly, I do love to sneak them into my other fics.

I do have some favouritism, with Wolffe and Cody being the clones I write about the most on my own accord.

I don’t really have any requests I was unsure about, sometimes with requests I do fear I go my own route too much. I have gotten a few requests to do AUs however, haven’t published any as I don’t like how I’ve gone about them.

I’ve certainly had a few ideas of my own where I liked it at first, then kinda (absolutely) hated it halfway through, but ended up loving it again in the end. Then there have been a few that I just ended up hating, or didn’t know how to end.

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

-🤍

Heya! I certainly do x

Hi! I’m not sure if you’ve heard of Epic the musical and the song “There are other ways” but I was thinking a Tech X Reader where he gets lost and comes across a sorceress and she seduces him and it’s very steamy? Lmk if this is ok, if not feel free to delete. Xx

“There Are Other Ways”

Tech x Reader

Tech had been separated from the squad before. Statistically speaking, given the volume of missions they undertook in unpredictable terrain, the odds were precisely 3.8% per assignment. He should have been more prepared for it—should have accounted for environmental disruptions, latent electromagnetic fields, or the possibility of the forest itself being… alive.

Still, none of that explained why his visor fritzed out the moment he crossed the river.

Or why the fog grew thicker when he tried to retrace his steps.

Or why the trees whispered his name like they knew him.

“Tech…”

He halted. The voice came from ahead—feminine, melodic. Not from his comm. And certainly not Omega playing a prank. She didn’t sound like a dream.

His grip tightened on his blaster. “Reveal yourself.”

And you did.

You stepped from the mist as if you belonged to it. Bare feet sinking into moss, the water licking around your ankles. The moon crowned you, making the fine threads of your cloak shimmer like woven starlight. Your gaze was ancient. Curious. Smiling.

“I’ve been waiting,” you said, voice like silk over steel.

Tech’s eyes narrowed behind his visor. “Statistically improbable, considering I had no intention of entering this region of the forest, nor becoming separated from my unit.”

“Perhaps I saw what you could not,” you said, tilting your head. “Or perhaps I called, and you listened.”

He ran a diagnostic scan. No lifeforms detected. No hostile readings. The air was too quiet.

“Are you… Force-sensitive?”

You laughed—a soft, knowing sound that made his stomach tighten.

“I’m something like that. Does it matter?”

“It very much does. If you are a threat, I am obligated to neutralize—”

But you were closer now. He hadn’t seen you move. Your fingers touched the edge of his armor with something like reverence.

“I’m not a threat unless you ask me to be.”

His breath hitched. Just once. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re… a clone trooper. The mind of your little unit.” You circled him slowly. “Always calculating. Always thinking. Never letting go.”

“I find control to be preferable to chaos,” he said sharply.

“And yet,” you whispered, stepping behind him, your hand brushing the nape of his neck, “you walked into the chaos anyway.”

His fingers twitched. He should have stepped forward. Should have recalibrated his scanner. Should have moved—

But he didn’t.

Because something about your presence tugged at the part of him he kept locked away. The part he filed under unnecessary. Indulgent. Weak.

“Your body,” you murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “wants what your mind won’t allow.”

He stiffened.

You smiled, warm and wicked, stepping in front of him again, your fingers now brushing the soft lining between his chest armor and undersuit. “You wear this like a wall. But you’re still a man beneath it.”

“I am not… easily manipulated,” he managed, though his voice had dropped, deeper than he liked.

“I’m not manipulating you, Tech.” You met his gaze. “I’m offering you a choice. You can walk away. Return to your mission. Your team. Your purpose.”

You stepped closer, and his breath caught as your hand slid beneath the edge of his cowl, your touch feather-light. “Or you can let go. Just for one night. Just this once.”

He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. He could list a hundred reasons why this was an anomaly. A deviation. A risk.

And yet—

His hand came up, slowly, almost shaking. Not to stop you. To touch you. To feel you. To confirm you were real.

You leaned in.

“I can show you other ways,” you whispered.

Then your lips brushed his—tentative at first, waiting. And when he didn’t pull away, you deepened the kiss, slow and exploratory, as if trying to map the mind he kept so tightly wound.

Tech’s world tilted.

Because for the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

And when he let his blaster fall to the moss, when his hands found your waist and pulled you against him, when he kissed you back with a desperation he didn’t know he had—

He wasn’t the mind anymore.

He was a man.

His breath stuttered.

Tech wasn’t used to this—not the heat rising in his chest, nor the sensation of lips ghosting down his neck like a whisper meant only for the softest, most hidden parts of him.

Your eyes drank him in—not with hunger, but with reverence. His freckles, his sharp cheekbones, the slight twitch in his jaw that betrayed the storm behind his glasses.

“You’re beautiful,” you said softly.

Tech blinked. “That is… an illogical observation.”

You smiled. “Then your logic needs reprogramming.”

He made a noise—half protest, half breathless laugh—but it caught in his throat when your hands touched the bare skin of his collarbone. Your thumbs pressed lightly into the muscles of his neck. Tech didn’t realize how tense he always was until he felt himself melting beneath your touch.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

“I…” His voice caught. “I cannot.”

You nodded, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “Then don’t.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he kissed you—desperately this time, hands curling at your waist as if anchoring himself to something real, something grounding in the swirling chaos of magic and sensation.

You pressed against him, warm and solid and devastatingly soft. One hand curled into his hair, the other sliding beneath the edge of his armor as you slowly coaxed it free. Piece by piece, you helped him shed it—not forcefully, never rushing. Like a ritual. Like he was something sacred.

When the last plate fell into the moss with a thud, he stood before you stripped of all defenses, chest rising and falling in quiet, stunned silence.

“You’re still thinking,” you said gently, brushing your nose against his.

“I—always think,” he breathed.

“Then let me think for you tonight.”

He didn’t protest when you led him backward into the moss, the magic of the forest warming the ground like a living bed. You straddled his lap, kissing him slow, deep, like you wanted to memorize every stifled sound he made.

Tech’s hands roamed—tentative, reverent, needy. He touched like a man learning to live in his own skin for the first time. Every sigh, every moan, every tremble you pulled from him was a tiny rebellion against the order he clung to.

And gods—how he clung to you instead.

Your magic hummed beneath your skin, wrapping around his ribs like silk. It didn’t control him. It didn’t bend his will. It simply amplified everything he was already feeling, pulling him deeper into you, into this—the illusion, the escape, the exquisite loss of control.

Your mouths met again and again. His glasses were somewhere in the moss. His hands splayed along the curve of your back. And when you whispered his name, over and over, like it was the only truth left in the galaxy—

He whispered yours back like a prayer.

Like he had always known it.

Like logic had never mattered at all.

Me: I'll stay silent so they don't know I'm judging The face I'm silent with:

I think the key to a happy life as an adult woman is to channel your inner weird little girl and make her happy

“War on Two Fronts” pt.8 (Final Part)

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The cantina had never felt so alive.

Over the last several weeks, she had joined the Bad Batch on a few of Cid’s more difficult jobs. Recovery runs, extractions, a few tight infiltration missions—each one forging a subtle bond between them. She and Hunter found common ground in silent understanding, Wrecker made her laugh despite herself, and even Tech, with his logic and curiosity, had started asking her opinion more often than not.

Cid still didn’t know her full story. The Trandoshan just assumed she was another burned-out merc who’d gone to ground after the war, hiding her past in the quiet monotony of bar work. And that suited the her just fine. The fewer people who knew, the safer everyone was.

But on one mission—one where they’d helped two bold sisters named Rafa and Trace Martez—she’d felt it again. That familiar pull in the Force, that reminder of what she used to be. Rafa had seen it too, maybe not for what it was, but she’d looked at her like someone who knew the fight wasn’t over yet. Trace had even asked if they’d ever met before.

She had only shaken her head. “Not in this lifetime.”

Now, back at Cid’s, sweaty and aching and dusty from another run, the Batch filed in ahead of her. Her boots dragged slightly, exhaustion settling in her bones like old echoes. She was about to hang her blaster at the rack when her breath caught—sharp, immediate, deep.

She felt him before she saw him.

The Force surged like a wave just under her skin. A presence wrapped in memory and loyalty and grief. Her head snapped up.

Standing in the corner of Cid’s parlor, talking low with Hunter, was Captain Rex.

He hadn’t changed much—still clad in familiar white and blue armor, cloak drawn over one shoulder, a little more wear on his face, a little more heaviness behind his eyes. His gaze was sharp as ever.

And then his eyes locked with hers.

The world fell away.

She didn’t breathe. Neither did he.

“Rex?” she said, barely a whisper.

Cid squinted at her. “Wait—you two know each other?”

Neither answered.

“Holy kriff,” Wrecker muttered.

The room fell into silence. Even Tech looked up from his scanner, blinking rapidly.

She took a step forward, heart in her throat. He took one too.

“…You’re alive,” Rex finally said.

“So are you,” she whispered back.

Rex’s voice broke just slightly. “I thought I lost you on Mygeeto.”

She wanted to say a thousand things. She wanted to cry. Or maybe scream. Instead, she smiled—tight and aching.

“You almost did.”

“You were reported dead,” Rex said, his voice lower now, almost reverent. “The logs said your ship was shot down before it cleared Mygeeto’s atmosphere. That you never made it off-world.”

She blinked, her mouth parting as if to speak, but nothing came at first. Her throat tightened.

“No,” she said finally. “That… never happened. I made it out clean. No damage. No one even fired at my ship.”

Rex stared at her, confusion shadowing his face. “That doesn’t make sense. That kind of discrepancy… someone altered the report.”

Her heart began to pound harder now, a slow, rising pressure like air being sucked out of the room.

A beat passed.

“…Bacara,” she said aloud, but not to Rex—more like to herself. The name slipped out like a bitter taste on her tongue.

It didn’t make sense. And yet, it did. The moment on the battlefield, when his blaster had locked on her with terrifying precision—then hesitated. Just for a breath. And she had felt something underneath the chip-induced obedience. A pause. A struggle.

And then the fake report.

Did he lie? The thought whispered through her like a crack of light through stormclouds. Did he lie to protect me?

But the thought was gone as quickly as it came—burned out by the searing heat of Rex’s presence.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, shaking it off, forcing herself back to the now. “I survived. That’s what matters.”

Rex wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking past her, to the others.

To the rest of the Batch.

His body tensed, like a wire pulled too tight.

“…You haven’t removed your chips,” Rex said suddenly, voice sharp and cold as a vibroblade.

The Bad Batch stilled.

“What?” Echo stepped forward. “Rex—”

“I said,” Rex growled, stepping into the middle of the group, “you haven’t removed your inhibitor chips. After everything we’ve seen—after what happened to her—you’re still walking around with those things in your heads?”

“We haven’t had an episode,” Tech offered calmly. “We believe our mutation suppresses its effectiveness.”

Rex’s hand hovered near his blaster now.

“Belief isn’t good enough. You’re a threat to her.”

The reader stepped between them, her heart in her throat.

“Rex—”

“No,” he said, not to her, but about her. “She barely survived the last time a squad turned on her. You really want to gamble her life again?”

Hunter met Rex’s fury head-on, calm but firm. “We’re not your enemy.”

“Not yet,” Rex snapped. “But I’ve seen what those chips do. I felt it tear my mind apart. You think just because you haven’t activated, it won’t happen? You don’t get to risk her.”

The reader put a hand on his chest, stopping him, grounding him.

“I can take care of myself,” she said quietly. “They’ve had plenty of chances. And they haven’t.”

But Rex’s gaze didn’t soften. Not yet.

“I lost everything,” he said, finally looking at her again. “Don’t ask me to stand by and watch it happen again. Not to you.”

⸻

The makeshift medbay in the old star cruiser felt colder than the cantina ever had. The surgical pod hissed softly as Tech monitored the vitals, his face pale in the glow of the console.

Wrecker sat on the edge of the table, visibly uneasy.

“I really don’t like this, guys,” he muttered, voice strained. “This doesn’t feel right.”

Hunter stepped forward, voice calm. “You’ll be okay. We’ve all done it now, Wreck. You’re the last one.”

The reader stood to the side, hands clasped tightly. She had helped on this mission, grown close to them over the weeks. The thought of any of them hurting her—or Omega—was almost impossible. But she’d seen what the chip could do. She had lived it.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Omega asked softly, standing near Wrecker’s knee.

Wrecker gave her a pained smile. “’Course I do, kid.”

She left his side reluctantly as Tech activated the procedure.

Then it began.

Sparks of pain registered on the screen—neural surges, error readings. Wrecker groaned, clutching his head.

The reader’s breath hitched.

“Tech?” Echo stepped forward. “That’s not normal—”

Wrecker’s growl cut through the room. His hands gripped the edges of the table until they bent under his strength.

He lunged.

Tech hit the emergency release—but too late. Wrecker was up, snarling, wild-eyed.

“You’re all traitors!” he shouted.

Hunter shoved Omega behind him. “Wrecker, fight it!”

“In violation of Order 66!” he bellowed, locking eyes with the reader.

She barely had time to ignite her saber as he charged.

They clashed hard—fist to blade. Sparks flew. Her heart pounded. He was trying to kill her.

He wasn’t Wrecker anymore.

“You don’t want to do this!” she cried, dodging as he smashed a console.

Echo and Hunter tried to flank him, but he threw them aside effortlessly. He moved toward Omega next—drawn to the Jedi-adjacent signature she carried.

“No!” the reader screamed, hurling him back with the Force.

That dazed him just long enough for Tech to line up the stun shot—two bursts of blue light—and Wrecker dropped to the ground, unconscious.

The silence afterward felt deafening.

Omega rushed into the reader’s arms, trembling.

“I-It wasn’t him,” she whispered. “That wasn’t Wrecker…”

The reader just held her tightly, blinking away her own tears.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.”

The cruiser’s medbay was quiet again, the hum of the equipment the only sound as Wrecker stirred.

He groaned, eyes fluttering open, then blinked blearily at the harsh lighting above. The reader stood near the far wall, arms crossed, eyes guarded. Omega was asleep in a nearby chair, curled up beneath a blanket.

Wrecker sat up slowly, then immediately winced. “Urgh… what happened?”

Hunter leaned forward, cautious. “You don’t remember?”

Wrecker rubbed his temple. “Just… pain. Then nothing.”

Tech stood near the console. “Your inhibitor chip activated. We had to stun you to prevent serious harm.”

Wrecker glanced around, gaze slowly landing on the reader. His heart dropped.

“I—I hurt you, didn’t I?” he rasped.

She didn’t speak at first. Her jaw was tight, her knuckles white where they gripped her sleeves.

“You tried to kill me,” she said quietly. “Tried to kill Omega.”

Wrecker’s shoulders slumped, devastated.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, barely able to get the words out. “I couldn’t stop it… I wasn’t me. I’d never hurt you. Or her.”

The reader finally stepped closer. “I know,” she said. “It wasn’t you. It was the chip.”

“But it was me,” Wrecker insisted. “It was my hands. My voice. I said those things…”

Omega stirred then, blinking awake. She saw Wrecker sitting up and scrambled over, hugging him fiercely before anyone could stop her.

He held her gently, cradling her as if she were made of glass. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I’m sorry, kid.”

“I forgive you,” she murmured.

The room went still.

The reader watched them, throat tight. The bruises on her arms still throbbed. But the sincerity in Wrecker’s voice, the pain in his eyes—it reached something inside her.

She gave a small nod. “So do I.”

Wrecker looked up, eyes glassy. “Really?”

She stepped closer, touching his shoulder. “You were the last one with that thing in your head. It’s over now. You’re still Wrecker.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Echo gave him a nod. “You’re one of us. Always.”

Tech cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all… unchipped, we can begin operating more freely. No more sudden execution protocols.”

Hunter placed a hand on Wrecker’s arm. “We move forward together.”

Wrecker nodded slowly, and Omega curled back up beside him, calmer now.

The reader stepped back, quietly observing them.

Something had changed in her too. Watching them risk everything for one another, seeing how hard they fought to stay together, to be together—it stirred something she hadn’t let herself feel in a long time:

Hope.

⸻

Ord Mantell’s night air was thick with the scent of dust and ion fuel, the stars low and heavy above the cluttered skyline.

She stood alone on the overlook behind Cid’s parlor, arms folded against the breeze, her lightsaber weighing heavy at her side. It was the first time she’d clipped it there in months.

She didn’t flinch when Rex approached. She felt him before she heard him.

“You sure?” he asked, stopping beside her.

She nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

They stood in silence for a long time. The clatter of cantina noise bled faintly through the walls. Somewhere below, Wrecker was likely teaching Omega how to throw a punch without breaking her wrist. Echo would be reading. Hunter brooding. Tech lecturing some poor soul who made the mistake of asking a question.

They’d become a strange sort of family. And that made this harder.

“I’m not running,” she finally said. “Not from them. But I can’t keep hiding in a bar like the war never happened.”

“You don’t owe anyone an explanation,” Rex said quietly.

She turned to look at him, really look at him—his expression weary, but his posture still sharp. There was always weight behind his gaze, but now it was heavier. Lonelier. She recognized it. She felt it too.

“I think I owe them a goodbye,” she said.

⸻

Inside, the Batch were gathered around the table. She stood before them, her saber now visibly clipped to her hip.

They all turned. Omega was the first to speak. “You’re leaving?”

“I am,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake. “With Rex.”

A beat of silence.

Hunter stood. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “You all gave me something I didn’t realize I needed. But I can’t stay here while there’s still a fight out there.”

Tech removed his goggles briefly, nodding with rare sincerity. “You’ve always been capable. I suspected it the moment I saw you cleaning barstools like you’d rather stab someone.”

That earned a faint laugh, even from her.

Wrecker stepped forward, wrapping her in a careful, crushing hug. “Just don’t get shot or anything.”

“I’ll try not to,” she muttered into his chestplate.

Echo approached last, meeting her gaze with quiet understanding. “Stay safe. And if you ever need us—”

“I’ll find you,” she said. “I promise.”

Omega flung herself into her arms, teary-eyed but brave. “Will you visit?”

“If I can,” she whispered. “I’ll try.”

⸻

Outside again, Rex waited by the speeder. She joined him in silence, the saber at her hip now humming softly against her side.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “But I’m going anyway.”

Rex smirked faintly. “Good answer.”

They mounted the speeder, and as it took off into the dark, she didn’t look back.

Not because she didn’t care.

But because it hurt too much.

And because the future waited.

⸻

*Time Skip*

The AT-TE creaked in the dry wind, its repurposed hull groaning like an old man settling into bed. Panels of mismatched metal were welded over the gaps, creating a patchwork home that had weathered years of storms, dust, and silence. A line of vapor-trapped cables ran down from a salvaged power generator, and the front cannon had long since been converted into a lookout perch—with an old caf pot hanging just beneath it.

Out here on Seelos, nothing moved fast—except time.

She sat alone atop the forward deck, legs dangling over the edge, her lightsaber in a locked case at her feet. She hadn’t opened it in years. Some days she forgot it was even there. Other days, her hand would rest on it unconsciously, like a phantom limb that still itched.

Behind her, laughter echoed from inside—Gregor’s wild cackle, Wolffe grumbling that something in the stew “smelled too fresh,” and Rex… softer now, slower in his step, but still unmistakably him.

He didn’t wear armor anymore. Not really. The old pauldrons were used as patch plates on the AT-TE, and his helmet rested on a shelf with a layer of dust thick enough to write in. His hair was white now, and his back bent a little more with each passing year. She could see the toll the war had taken on his body—clones weren’t built for longevity. But his eyes? Those still held that sharp, earnest fire when he looked at her.

They had made a quiet life together. A small garden. A stripped-down comm dish for the occasional transmission. She cooked. He read. Some mornings they sat in silence with caf, the sun rising red over the Seelos horizon like blood on sand.

And yet, there were moments—when the wind howled just so, or when night came too quiet—when her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To him.

To Bacara.

She hadn’t seen him since Mygeeto. Since she watched him gun down Master Mundi without hesitation—since he turned on her with no emotion at all, like a stranger wearing a familiar face. But sometimes, she wondered. He’d lied in his report. She was sure of it. He said her ship was shot down before it breached the atmosphere… but it wasn’t. He let her go.

Why?

And where was he now?

Did he ever think about her? Did the chip ever break like it did in Rex? Or did he die a soldier, still bound to the Empire? Still hunting Jedi in the shadows of a life that used to mean more?

She shook the thought away.

She had Rex.

And this peace… this was real.

The perimeter alarm chirped—one long tone, then two short. A ship. Small. Civilian or rebel-modified. Old programming still made her spine go rigid.

She stood, heart steady but alert, as the vessel descended into view. The dust curled beneath it, kicking up into the dusk-lit sky.

By the time it touched down, she was already at the foot of the AT-TE, hand hovering instinctively near the saber case tucked behind the front hatch.

Then the ramp lowered.

She felt it.

The Force.

Before they even stepped out.

Two Jedi.

A Mandalorian.

And a Lasat.

Ezra Bridger emerged first, cautious and respectful. Sabine Wren followed, helmet in hand, and Zeb let out a low grunt of approval at the sight of the old war walker.

And then him.

The Jedi.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Not because he was a stranger.

Because he wasn’t.

Caleb Dume.

He didn’t look the same—not exactly. Older now, guarded. His hair longer, beard fuller, movements tighter like someone who had lived on the edge too long.

But she knew those eyes.

“Kanan Jarrus,” he introduced himself, stepping forward.

She didn’t return the greeting immediately. Her voice was quiet. “I knew you as Caleb.”

He stiffened, face unreadable. The others exchanged a glance. The Lasat’s hand twitched near his weapon, but Hera gently put a hand on his arm.

Kanan didn’t deny it. “Then you’re…?”

“I was with Master Mace Windus second padawan,” she said. “I remember you at the Temple. You were small. Loud. You used to sneak into the archives to look at holos of war reports.”

His expression softened. “That sounds like me.”

“You survived.”

“So did you.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The past stretched like a shadow between them.

Ezra finally stepped in. “Do the numbers CT-7567 mean anything to you? Ashoka Tano said he might help us establish a network… fight back against the Empire.”

Behind her, footsteps thudded—Rex stepping out of the AT-TE, wiping his hands with a rag, eyebrows raised as he spotted the group.

“Told ya they’d find us eventually,” Gregor called from the hatch, cheerful as ever.

The reader didn’t take her eyes off Kanan.

He was studying Rex, but his focus kept flicking back to her.

She could feel the tension like a storm behind his eyes. The chip. Order 66. Old scars. Unspoken pain.

She understood. But this wasn’t about the past anymore.

This was the beginning of something new.

A new hope.

⸻

Previous Chapter

breaking news: mr sad and miserable is being sad and miserable again

- Good soldiers follow orders

“War on Two Fronts” pt.7

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

War had a way of compressing time—days blurred into nights, missions into months. And somewhere in the quiet pockets between battles, between orders and hyperspace jumps, something had bloomed between the you and Bacara.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t easy.

But it was real.

They didn’t speak of love. Not openly. That would be too dangerous. Too foolish. But in the stolen moments—fingers brushing during debriefings, wordless glances across a war room, a hand on the small of her back as they passed each other in narrow corridors—it was undeniable.

He wasn’t good with words, not like Rex had been. Bacara showed his affection in action: the way he checked her gear before missions without asking, or how he always stood between her and enemy fire, whether she needed it or not. He never said “I love you.” But when she bled, he bled too.

She caught herself smiling as she boarded the cruiser for Mygeeto. Her datapad buzzed with her new orders—assist Master Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Bacara for the Fourth Siege. The final push.

She hadn’t seen Bacara in weeks. The campaign on Aleen had separated them again, followed by a skirmish in the mid-rim, but her heart pulled northward like a magnet toward Mygeeto. Her fingers tightened around her travel case as she stepped aboard the assault cruiser, heart quickening.

When she entered the command deck, Bacara stood over a strategic map display, armored and severe as ever. Mundi stood beside him, still every bit the stoic Master she remembered, though his greeting was warmer this time.

“General,” Mundi said with a nod. “Good to have you back.”

Bacara said nothing at first, just glanced up—his expression unreadable. But then, a flicker. The tiniest softening in his eyes that only she would notice.

“General,” he echoed in his clipped tone, nodding once.

Later, when the debrief was done and the hallways had quieted for the night, she found him waiting near the barracks. They stood in silence at first, just listening to the hum of the ship, the distant thrum of hyperdrive.

“You came back,” he said.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

He gave the barest of shrugs, then looked at her. Really looked.

“I missed you,” she said quietly.

His jaw flexed. “We can’t do this here.”

“I know.” She stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat from his armor. “But I needed to see you before everything starts again.”

There, in the half-shadowed corridor, his hand brushed hers. A silent agreement.

That night, she didn’t return to her quarters.

They didn’t speak of the war. They didn’t speak of what might happen next. They existed only in that moment, a breath of peace before the storm.

In the dim lighting of the officer’s quarters, he kissed her again—firmer this time, as if grounding himself in the only certainty the war hadn’t taken from him.

When she fell asleep curled into his side, Bacara stayed awake for hours, staring at the ceiling.

Because tomorrow, they dropped on Mygeeto.

And nothing would be the same after that.

⸻

Mygeeto was a graveyard.

Shards of glass and collapsed towers jutted from the ice like bones. The wind howled endlessly, scouring the broken streets with frozen dust. The Fourth Siege had begun days ago, and already the Republic’s grip was tightening.

The reader moved through the war-torn ruins beside Bacara, her boots crunching through frost, her senses prickling with unease she couldn’t name.

Even Bacara seemed quieter than usual.

Their squad had pushed deep into the southern district, routing droid forces and holding position near the abandoned Muun vaults. Mundi was coordinating an assault to breach the city’s primary data center. Every minute was another layer of pressure, another reason her gut twisted tighter.

And then, the transmission came through.

It was late. The squad had returned to their mobile command shelter to regroup and patch injuries. Bacara was at the long-range transmitter when the encrypted message chimed in. She approached just as he turned, helmet off, eyes dark.

“It’s confirmed,” he said.

“What is?”

“Kenobi.” A beat. “He killed General Grievous.”

The words didn’t register at first.

The breath in her chest caught. “So… it’s over?”

“Almost.”

She sat slowly, bracing her elbows on her knees. “We’ve been fighting this war for three years. And now it just… ends?”

Bacara didn’t sit. He stood near the entrance flap, staring out into the howling cold.

“I don’t think it ends. Not really.” His voice was low. “Something’s coming.”

She looked up at him. “You feel it too.”

He nodded.

The Force was thick, oppressive. The kind of quiet that comes before a scream.

“Have you heard from Mundi?” she asked.

“Briefly. He wants us to hold until his unit circles back to regroup. We deploy again in the morning.” He paused, then added, “He was… unsettled.”

That alone chilled her. If Mundi was unsettled, it meant something was very wrong.

That night, they didn’t sleep.

She sat beside Bacara outside the tent, cloaked against the wind, their shoulders brushing.

“Whatever’s coming,” she said, “we’ll face it together.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“No matter what?”

She didn’t flinch. “No matter what.”

And somewhere far away, across the stars, a coded transmission began its journey to clone commanders across the galaxy.

Execute Order 66.

But it hadn’t reached them yet.

Not yet.

⸻

The morning was bitter cold.

Frost crackled beneath their boots as they moved out in formation, the clouds above Mygeeto hanging low and grey, like a lid waiting to seal the planet shut. The reader walked just behind Master Mundi and beside Bacara, her cloak drawn tight against the wind.

Mundi was speaking, his voice cutting through the comms. “This push will be final. The Separatist defense grid is thinning—we press forward, clear the vault entrance, and signal the cruiser for extraction.”

The reader nodded slightly. Bacara said nothing, but she could feel the tension in him—coiled tighter than usual.

They advanced through the ruins in a steady column. Mundi led the charge across a narrow bridge, lined on both sides with jagged drops and half-fallen towers. The droids emerged first, as expected. The clones fanned out, taking cover and returning fire in sharp, well-practiced bursts.

It felt normal.

But something was wrong. She didn’t know why, didn’t know how—but the Force around her buzzed like lightning trapped beneath her skin.

Then, it happened.

A static shiver through the comms. A code, sharp and cold.

“Execute Order 66.”

Her head snapped to Bacara. He was silent. His helmet was already on.

Mundi turned. “Come on! We must push—!”

The first bolt hit him in the back.

She froze.

The second bolt pierced Mundi’s chest, dropping him to his knees. He reached out, shocked. More fire rained from above, precise, emotionless, cutting him down mid-step.

The clones didn’t hesitate. Bacara didn’t hesitate.

Her breath caught in her throat, the world slowing to a nightmare crawl. “Bacara—?” she whispered.

He turned.

And opened fire.

She moved on instinct. A Force-shoved wall of ice rose between them as she leapt off the bridge’s edge, tucking and rolling onto a lower ledge as blasterfire trailed her path.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Her squad. Her men.

Him.

She fled, ducking through ruined alleys and broken vaults, chased by the echoes of boots and bolts and the question clawing at her chest:

Why?

Nothing made sense. No signal. No warning. Just sudden betrayal like a switch flipped in their minds. Like she’d never mattered. Like they’d never fought beside her.

She kept running until her legs burned and her heart broke.

Mygeeto burned around her.

The vault city trembled with explosions and echoing blasterfire. The sky had darkened with the smoke of betrayal, and her boots slipped on shattered crystal as she ran through what remained of the inner ruins.

She had no plan. No backup. No Jedi.

Only survival.

The Force screamed through her veins, adrenaline burning hotter than frostbite. Behind her, the clones advanced in perfect formation—ruthless, silent, efficient. Just as they’d been trained to be. Just as she’d trusted them to be.

Her saber ignited in a flash of defiance. She didn’t want to kill them—Force, she didn’t—but they gave her no choice.

Two troopers rounded the corner, rifles raised. With a spin and a sharp, choked breath, her blade cut through one blaster, then the clone behind it. The second she disarmed with a flick of the Force, sending him slamming into a pillar. He didn’t rise.

“Forgive me,” she muttered, but there was no time for grief.

She sprinted through the lower vault district, rubble crunching beneath her. Her starfighter wasn’t far—hidden in a hangar bay northeast of the city edge. She was almost there.

Almost.

Then he found her.

Bacara.

He dropped in from above like a specter of death, slamming her to the ground with brutal precision. Her saber clattered across the ice. His weight bore down on her, a knee to her chest, his DC-15 aimed square at her head.

His visor glinted in the frost-glow, his silence more terrifying than a scream.

She stared up at him, panting, hurt. “You were mine,” she rasped.

No answer.

His finger moved toward the trigger.

The Force pulsed.

She thrust her hand upward and a wave of raw power flung him off her, launching him into a support beam with a sound like breaking stone. He dropped, groaning, armor dented, stunned.

She didn’t stop to look. She grabbed her saber and ran.

Two more troopers blocked her path to the hangar. She deflected one bolt, then two—but the third she sent back into the chest of the clone who fired it. His body fell beside her as she charged the next, slashing his weapon before delivering a stunning kick that sent him flying.

The hangar doors groaned open.

She threw herself into the cockpit of her fighter, fingers flying over the controls, engines screaming to life.

Blasterfire pinged against the hull as more troopers swarmed the bay. She closed her eyes, guided by instinct, by pain, by loss—and took off into the cold, storm-choked skies.

Mygeeto shrank behind her.

And with it, the last pieces of everything she’d trusted.

⸻

The stars blurred past her cockpit like tears on transparisteel.

She didn’t know how long she’d been flying—minutes, hours. Her hands trembled against the yoke, white-knuckled, blood-slicked. The silence in the cockpit was deafening. No clones, no saber hum, no Bacara breathing just behind her. Just the thin rasp of her own breath and the stinging wound of betrayal burning behind her ribs.

Mygeeto was gone. Bacara was gone.

They were all gone.

She barely made it through hyperspace. Her navigation systems stuttered, and she’d been forced to fly blind, guided only by instinct and muscle memory.

The planet she chose wasn’t much—Polis Massa. An old medical station and mining outpost on the edge of the system. Remote. Quiet. Forgotten.

Safe.

Her ship touched down with a shudder, systems coughing and sparking. She slumped against the controls, body aching, mind fractured.

She stumbled out into the cold, sterile facility. No guards raised weapons at her, no sirens screamed Jedi. Just quiet personnel, startled by her bloodied robes and wild, hollow stare.

They gave her a room. She didn’t ask for one.

The medics patched the worst of her wounds. Someone gave her water. A blanket. A moment.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

When she woke, everything hurt. Her skin, her bones, her heart. She sat upright on the small cot, still in half armor, saber clipped loosely at her hip. Her communicator blinked on the nearby table—flashing red.

Encrypted message.

She nearly dropped it trying to pick it up. The code was familiar. Old. Republic-grade clearance. She swallowed and activated it.

The holoprojector buzzed—and then there he was.

Kenobi.

His projection flickered in the dark, singed, exhausted, speaking quickly and low.

“This is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen. With the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place…”

Her stomach clenched.

“…The clone troopers have turned against us. I’m afraid this message is a warning and a reminder: any surviving Jedi, do not return to the Temple. That time is over. Trust in the Force.”

He paused, breathing hard.

“We will each find our own path forward now. May the Force be with you.”

The message ended. Just a small flicker of blue light, fading into silence.

She stared at the projector long after it dimmed, her face unreadable. Then she whispered, as if the stars might still be listening:

“…What did we do to deserve this?”

⸻

Coruscant.

The city-world pulsed under a grey sky, its endless towers casting long shadows over the Senate District. Republic banners were being torn down and replaced with crimson. No one called it the Republic anymore. Not truly. Not after the declaration.

Bacara stood at attention in a high-security debriefing chamber, helmet under his arm, armor still caked in the dust and ice of Mygeeto. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes—something usually precise and locked in—seemed… dislodged.

His mission was complete. Jedi General Ki-Adi-Mundi was dead.

He had reported it cleanly, efficiently. Nothing of hesitation, nothing of how she escaped. Only that she turned traitor, resisted, killed his men. That she was lost in the chaos of the siege.

The brass accepted it. They always did. Too much war. Too many traitors.

He was dismissed with a curt nod from an officer in dark new uniform. The Empire moved quickly. No more Jedi. No more second guesses.

He exited the chamber with stiff precision, walking the stark halls of the former GAR command center—now flooded with black-clad officers, techs, and white-armored troopers with fresh paint jobs. A few bore markings he recognized, some didn’t. The old legions were being divided, repurposed. Branded anew.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with two familiar faces in a side hallway.

“Commander Wolffe. Cody.”

Wolffe gave him a once-over, eye narrowed. “Bacara. You’re back from Mygeeto.”

“Confirmed. Mundi is dead. Target neutralized.”

Cody didn’t smile. He rarely did these days. “And the other Jedi?”

“Escaped,” Bacara said curtly. “Presumed dead. Ship went down in atmosphere. Unconfirmed.”

Wolffe raised a brow, but let it go.

The conversation would have ended there—cold and flat—but a datapad in Cody’s hand flashed. He frowned, tapped the screen, then muttered, “Damn…”

“What is it?” Bacara asked.

Cody handed him the pad.

“Captain CT-7567 — Status: KIA. Location: Classified. Time: Immediately post-Order 66.”

Bacara stared at the words, his throat tightening before he could stop it.

Wolffe crossed his arms, jaw tight. “It’s spreading fast. Some say Ashoka killed him. Some say it was Maul. No one knows. But there were no survivors.”

Cody shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone.”

Bacara looked away, jaw grinding. Rex was dead. That’s what the record said.

He should’ve felt… nothing. Relief, maybe. One less problem. One less thorn in his side.

But the silence between the three of them said otherwise.

“Shame,” Wolffe muttered. “He was one of the good ones.”

She loved him.

The thought hit Bacara like a gut punch, but he gave no sign.

He offered a stiff nod. “He did his duty.”

And walked away.

⸻

The Outer Rim.

No one looked twice at the battered Y-wing that landed half-crooked in the backlot of Ord Mantell’s grimiest district. The ship hadn’t flown since. She’d let the local rust take it. A relic no one asked about. One more ghost among the debris of a fallen Republic.

Three months.

That’s how long she’d been hiding on this dusty, low-grade world, tucked into the shadows of a run-down cantina operated by a sharp-tongued Trandoshan named Cid. Cid wasn’t friendly—but she wasn’t curious either. That alone made her safer here than anywhere near Coruscant.

The cantina was dim, the stench of stale ale thick in the air. Smoke curled from a broken vent in the ceiling. Old Clone War propaganda still clung to a wall like a molted skin. No one talked about the war anymore. They drank to forget it.

She moved quietly between tables, clearing empty mugs, wiping down grime, keeping her head down. Her once-pristine Jedi robes had been traded for utility pants, a threadbare top, and a scuffed jacket a size too big. Her lightsaber was hidden—disassembled and buried in a cloth bundle under the floorboards of her bunk behind the kitchen. Sometimes she reached for it at night, half-asleep, still expecting it to be on her belt.

Every day she woke up expecting to feel the warmth of the Force beside her.

And every day, she didn’t.

She missed them. All of them. Even him.

Bacara.

His face still haunted her. The betrayal. The way his blaster hadn’t even hesitated when he gunned down Mundi. The way he’d turned on her—stone-faced and unfeeling, as if their moments together had meant nothing. She hadn’t had time to ask why. Only to run. To survive.

And Rex… she didn’t even know if he was alive. The transmission from Kenobi hadn’t mentioned him. The Temple was gone. The Jedi were gone. She was gone.

No one had come looking. Not the clones. Not the Empire. Not Bacara.

Not Rex.

Not even Mace—though maybe she’d never expected him to.

At first, she’d been sure someone would come. That the galaxy couldn’t forget her so quickly. But three months had passed. No wanted posters. No troopers sweeping the streets. No shadows at her door.

Nothing.

She was no one here.

She wiped the same table twice before realizing she’d been staring through it, lost in memory. The war felt like another lifetime.

But even the Force had gone quiet. As if it, too, had moved on.

“Hey!” Cid’s sharp voice cracked through the cantina. “You forget how to carry a tray, or you just feel like decorating my floor with spilled ale again?”

She blinked. “Sorry.”

Cid snorted. “You’re always sorry.”

She didn’t argue. There wasn’t much of herself left to defend anymore.

The streets outside were quieter than usual. A dust storm had rolled in from the western flats, coating everything in a layer of filth. She stepped out back after her shift, sitting on a crate and staring up at a sky smothered by clouds.

It was strange how peaceful nothing could be.

No orders. No battles. No war.

No one looking for her. No one needing her. No one remembering her.

It should have felt like freedom.

But it didn’t.

⸻

The bell above the cantina door jingled.

She didn’t react. Not visibly. But her breath hitched in her chest. She heard the unmistakable weight of clone trooper boots on the wooden floor—too heavy to be locals, too careful to be drunks.

She didn’t need to look. She knew those steps by heart. Years of war had taught her how clones moved—each one slightly different, and yet the same at the core. And somehow… somehow they were here.

In Cid’s.

In her nowhere.

She ducked behind the bar a little more, scrubbing the same patch of wood with trembling fingers, her face hidden beneath a cap and the dull glow of the overhead lights.

“Cid?” a calm, steady voice asked.

That one—Hunter.

Cid didn’t even look up from her datapad. “That depends on who’s asking.”

“We were told you could help us.”

“By who?” Cid’s tone was suspicious, as always.

“Echo,” Hunter said, motioning slightly.

She froze. Her heart stopped for a moment.

Echo.

She dared a glance over her shoulder.

There he was—taller now, armor more modified, with half of his head and legs taken by cybernetics. He looked different. Paler. Haunted. But it was him. And he was staring.

Right at her.

Her stomach dropped.

But he didn’t say anything. His expression barely changed, just narrowed eyes and a twitch of something she couldn’t name. Recognition, maybe. Or disbelief.

Either way—he wasn’t saying her name. And she didn’t dare say his.

She ducked her head again and retreated to the back counter, trying to blend in.

The squad spread out, letting Cid do her usual banter. Tech scanned things. Wrecker picked something up and nearly broke it. Omega stood in wide-eyed awe of the dingy place.

And then, like a quiet ripple in the Force, she felt Omega’s presence behind her.

“Hi,” the girl said.

The reader turned just slightly, trying not to panic. “Hi.”

“You work for Cid?”

She nodded, hoping it was enough.

“I’m Omega.”

The girl was painfully sweet. The kind of pure the galaxy hadn’t seen in years.

“You got a name?”

“…Lena,” the reader lied smoothly, her voice steady despite the burn behind her eyes.

“That’s pretty,” Omega said, hopping up onto the stool across from her. “Are you from around here?”

“Something like that.” She kept her eyes down.

Omega tilted her head. “You feel sad.”

That startled her. “Excuse me?”

“I just meant—your eyes look sad,” Omega said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The reader forced a smile. “You didn’t.”

Echo walked by again. His gaze lingered on her for one long second. But again, he said nothing.

She didn’t know if he was sparing her or trying to figure her out. Maybe both.

She went back to cleaning.

And for the first time in months, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

⸻

Echo watched her from the corner of the cantina as she quietly wiped down a table in the far back, avoiding all eye contact, keeping her presence small.

Too small.

He leaned slightly toward Tech, lowering his voice so Cid and the others wouldn’t catch it. “Do you recognize her?”

Tech didn’t even glance up from his datapad. “The worker? No.”

“She looks familiar,” Echo said, arms crossing over his chest plate. “I’m not sure from where, but… I think she’s a Jedi. Or—was.”

That got Tech’s attention. He looked up, eyes narrowing slightly behind his lenses. “A Jedi?”

“She fought with the 501st a few times. A long time ago,” Echo said. “I was still… me.”

Tech considered that for a long moment, then looked over toward her discreetly. “You’re certain?”

“No. That’s what’s bothering me. I can’t tell if she’s someone I actually remember or if it’s a glitch in my head from… everything.” He gestured vaguely to his augmentations.

Tech nodded slowly, turning his attention back to the datapad. “I’ll run a scan. Discreetly. If she is a former Jedi or officer, her face might still be buried in the Republic’s archived comm logs. Assuming the Empire hasn’t wiped everything yet.”

Echo nodded once, still watching her.

She never once looked back.

Tech sat back slightly, the datapad in his lap casting a faint glow on his face. The scan had taken time—far more than he liked. Most of the Jedi archives were either firewalled or fragmented. But a clever backdoor through an old 501st tactical log had revealed what he needed.

The image was slightly grainy, pulled from a recording during a battle on Christophis. A Jedi—young, lightsaber ignited, issuing commands beside Captain Rex.

Her.

Tech adjusted his goggles, double-checking the facial markers. Ninety-nine-point-seven percent match.

He glanced across the cantina where she was wiping down a counter with feigned disinterest, like she hadn’t felt the moment his eyes landed on her. But he knew better. Jedi always felt when they were being watched.

He stood and approached casually, careful not to spook her. “I take it this isn’t your preferred line of work.”

She stiffened slightly, then looked over at him with cool neutrality. “Not really, no. But it’s honest.”

“Curious,” Tech said. “That honesty would be your refuge. Especially for someone like you.”

She paused. The rag in her hand stilled. “Someone like me?”

“A Jedi Knight,” he replied plainly. “Confirmed through tactical footage of Christophis. You served alongside Captain Rex.”

Her throat worked once, jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t be looking into me.”

“I’m naturally curious,” he said, calm and even. “And cautious. After all, fugitives tend to attract the Empire’s attention.”

“You’re fugitives too,” she said flatly. “Aren’t you?”

He didn’t deny it.

“Then why out me?” she asked, voice quieter, with the weight of exhaustion clinging to it.

“I didn’t say I would. But perhaps… we could be of use to each other.”

That made her blink. “You want to align with a Jedi?”

Tech pushed his goggles up slightly. “You have experience. Strategic value. And the Empire has already labeled us traitors. I see no logical reason not to align with someone equally hunted—especially someone who once fought for the same Republic we did.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tightened around the rag before setting it down.

“I’m not who I used to be,” she said.

Tech tilted his head. “Neither are we.”

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“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

“War on Two Fronts” pt.5

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Council chamber lights dimmed as the debrief concluded. Bacara and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi exited in synchronized silence, the General’s long strides matching the Commander’s clipped, militant pace. Their boots echoed through the empty corridor.

They didn’t speak until the door to Mundi’s private quarters hissed closed behind them.

“I expected more restraint from her,” Mundi said, lowering his hood and brushing dust from the hem of his robe. “She continues to act with more heart than mind.”

“She held the position,” Bacara answered, standing still, helmet tucked under his arm. “Her plan worked.”

“Despite contradicting my orders. Again.”

Bacara’s brow twitched.

“She isn’t your padawan, Master Jedi.”

Mundi turned, eyes narrowing. “She is not yours either.”

A beat passed between them—tense, unsaid.

Bacara continued evenly. “With all due respect, General, her instincts saved lives. She has a rapport with native systems we lack. That’s why she was sent.”

Mundi stepped closer. “Her defiance encourages division. Among the men. Between us. If she continues to override my command in the field, I will petition for her removal.”

Bacara’s jaw tightened. “Petition it, then.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Mundi’s features—but he said nothing further. The door opened behind them without warning.

“Interesting conversation,” Mace Windu said calmly, stepping into the threshold with arms folded behind his back. “Especially in my temple.”

Mundi straightened. Bacara turned slightly, his posture still.

“Mace,” Mundi said tersely, “I wasn’t aware you were within earshot.”

“You weren’t.” Mace’s gaze was unreadable. “But I am now.”

Bacara shifted subtly as Mundi excused himself with a nod. The door shut behind him, leaving Windu and the Marshal Commander alone.

“I assume that wasn’t the first time he’s said something like that.”

“No, General.”

Mace studied Bacara in silence for a long time.

“She frustrates you.”

“Yes.”

“She challenges you.”

“She challenges everyone.”

Mace didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moved. “Good.”

Bacara blinked.

“You were eavesdropping on my conversation with her,”Windu said. “She told me.”

Bacara gave no excuse.

“You took offense.”

Still no reply.

“I’m not asking you to like her, Commander,” Windu continued. “But I trained her. I know every strength and every flaw. And I sent her out there not just to win battles—but to become something more than what the war wants her to be.”

Bacara’s eyes finally lifted to meet his.

“She’ll never become that if everyone keeps expecting her to fit a mold she was never made for.”

Mace turned to leave, then paused.

“She thinks you hate her.”

“I don’t.”

“You should tell her that.”

“I’ll consider it, sir.”

Mace nodded once, sharp and precise. “You’re dismissed, Commander.”

As Bacara stepped into the corridor, he felt the weight of the conversation settle heavier than any armor.

He didn’t hate her. He wasn’t sure what he felt at all.

But he knew something had shifted—and Mace Windu was watching it unfold.

⸻

Coruscant was loud in a way Aleen could never be. Mechanical hums. Shuttles roaring overhead. The ever-present press of voices—clones, officers, droids, senators.

You hated how quickly it swallowed everything you’d just worked for.

The campaign on Aleen had ended with fewer casualties than projected, the native population protected, and General Mundi oddly… complimentary during debriefings. A rare win.

But here, back in the sterile hallways of Republic infrastructure, you felt the shift. The ripple of tension that had nothing to do with the war.

You leaned against the wall outside a conference room, arms crossed, still half in your field gear, watching clone officers file past.

Bacara was across from you, just as silent as ever, helmet clipped to his side.

Not speaking. Not glaring. Not walking away, either.

“I figured you’d vanish again,” you said finally. “Go back to pretending you tolerate me out of obligation.”

He didn’t look over, but his voice was quieter than usual. “I don’t pretend.”

You glanced at him, heart already threatening to betray you by skipping ahead. “No?”

“I told you. I don’t hate you.”

You chuckled softly. “That’s not quite the same as liking me.”

He met your gaze. “No. It’s not.”

Before you could answer, heavy boots rounded the corner—familiar, steady, a presence that always made your chest twist.

Rex.

He paused when he saw you, a half-smile forming. “General.”

“Captain.” You stood straighter, smile automatic.

His eyes flicked briefly to Bacara. The air thickened.

“Didn’t expect you back so soon,” Rex added, his voice just a little too calm.

“Neither did I. Aleen wrapped early. Mundi actually gave me something resembling a compliment.”

“That’s a headline,” Rex joked. But his eyes didn’t leave Bacara.

The other clone commander said nothing. Just stood at your side, unreadable as always.

Ahsoka rounded the corner next, blue-and-white montrals catching the light. She stopped, blinking at the scene—then gave a little nod, as if the Force had just whispered something to her.

“Uh oh,” she said lightly.

You arched a brow. “Uh oh?”

“I think you three need a minute.”

She all but dragged Rex away, glancing back once, her expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

You turned to Bacara, who hadn’t moved.

“Well,” you said, too casually. “That’s going to be awkward later.”

Bacara exhaled slowly. “He’s important to you.”

You frowned. “So are you.”

That made him flinch. Just barely. A breath, a twitch of his jaw.

“I don’t know how to be that,” he said.

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to try.”

He looked at you again—really looked. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m trying.”

You smiled, a bit softer than before. “Good.”

In the distance, you could feel Rex’s presence like a steady pulse. Familiar. Safe.

And beside you, Bacara. Solid. Controlled. Finally cracking open just a little.

Two men. Opposite hearts. And you, suspended in the gravity between them.

⸻

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking the halls of the base, looking for somewhere quiet. It was one of those nights where sleep hovered but never landed—your thoughts full of too many voices, too many faces.

Rex’s door was open.

He was sitting at the edge of his bunk, still in partial armor, head low, hands loosely clasped. A man built for war—always steady, always composed.

You knocked on the doorframe.

He looked up, unsurprised. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You stepped inside. “I don’t know if I even tried.”

A pause, then a small smile. “Me neither.”

He motioned to the empty bunk across from him. You sat, the air quiet between you. Close, but not too close. Not yet.

“I keep thinking about Aleen,” you said eventually. “And Bacara. And the way I keep orbiting around people I shouldn’t.”

Rex didn’t answer right away. His gaze was locked on the floor.

“I didn’t think you and Bacara were…” he trailed off, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You want it to.”

His eyes met yours—raw, honest. “Yeah. I do.”

It was like oxygen filled the room again.

You rose from the bunk, stepped closer, until there was barely a breath between you. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t back away.

“I don’t know how to do this either,” you whispered. “Not with clones. Not with Jedi codes looming over everything. Not with… you.”

He stood slowly. “I don’t care about codes.”

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as he lifted a hand, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch.

“Rex,” you breathed. “I—”

The door slid open.

You both jumped apart.

Anakin stood in the doorway, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched.

There was a beat of charged silence before he said, completely deadpan, “Well. Don’t stop on my account.”

You stared, flustered. Rex was already stepping back, straightening like he’d been caught sneaking out of class.

Anakin smirked, stepping into the room. “Relax. I’m not one to judge about… attachments.” The word practically dripped sarcasm.

You glared at him. “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to consider knocking. Decided against it.”

Rex cleared his throat. “General—”

Anakin held up a hand. “You’re both adults. You’ve survived more battles than I can count. Just… try not to get caught by someone less forgiving than me.”

You crossed your arms. “Like Master Windu?”

Anakin shrugged, amused. “Exactly.”

And then, his expression softened just a little. “Just be careful, okay? Both of you. This war doesn’t make room for many second chances.”

With that, he turned and left, the door hissing shut behind him.

You and Rex stood in the silence that followed, hearts still racing.

“Next time,” Rex said, voice lower, rougher, “I’m locking the door.”

You smiled—because of course he would.

And yet, the moment had shifted. It hadn’t broken… but it had changed.

Still, you took a step closer.

“Next time,” you whispered, “don’t stop.”

⸻

Mace Windu stood at the high window of the Council chamber, watching Coruscant sprawl beneath him in endless lines of light. His hands were folded behind his back, posture rigid, gaze unreadable.

He had been quiet during the last half of the briefing. Even Yoda had glanced his way once or twice, sensing his distraction.

The briefing ended. The chamber emptied. Only Obi-Wan lingered.

“You’re distracted,” Obi-Wan said casually, tone light, but not mocking.

Mace didn’t turn. “She’s hiding something.”

Obi-Wan didn’t need to ask who she was.

“Your former Padawan is a Knight now. Independent. Capable. Perhaps you’re reading too much into it.”

“She’s… different,” Mace said slowly, frowning. “Something’s shifted. Not in battle. Not in duty. But in her presence. The Force around her feels… pulled.”

Obi-Wan’s eyebrows rose slightly. “You think she’s forming attachments?”

“I know she is.”

That earned a quiet sigh from Kenobi. “And this is a problem because…?”

Mace turned then, expression flat. “Because she’s too much like Skywalker.”

Obi-Wan barked a short laugh before he could stop himself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“She walks the line,” Mace said, voice low. “Emotion, impulse, recklessness. I accepted it as her master. I even respected it. But I didn’t teach her to love—I taught her to survive.”

here was silence for a moment.

“And yet…” Obi-Wan said thoughtfully, “she still smiles when you’re around. Still calls you her family.”

Mace looked away.

“I’m not condemning her,” he said. “I just… I can feel it. The way she holds herself. Like there’s someone else she’s protecting now. Like she’s already chosen someone.”

“You know who?”

“No,” Mace admitted. “Not yet. But I will.”

⸻

You sat alone beneath one of the massive trees, hood pulled up, trying to meditate but failing.

You felt him before you heard him.

“I taught you not to slouch,” Mace said behind you.

You smirked. “I distinctly remember you teaching me how to disarm a Dathomirian assassin at the age of eleven. Posture didn’t come up.”

Mace sat beside you with a long, deep sigh. “You’ve changed.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m not angry,” he continued, tone unreadable. “But I sense a disturbance around you. Like the Force is being… shared.”

Your stomach dropped. Not because you were guilty—not exactly—but because you knew he’d never bring this up unless he felt it deeply.

“I’m not in danger,” you said quietly.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked at him, then away. “I’ve seen so many die, Master. It’s hard to not care. To not feel.”

“You can care,” Mace said. “But if your feelings endanger your clarity, or the mission—”

“They don’t,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “I haven’t broken. I haven’t fallen.”

Mace was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m not asking for names,” he said eventually. “But if it’s a clone… be careful. You already live in a world built to destroy everything you care about. Don’t give the war something else to take from you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I’ll always be your family,” he added, voice softer. “But I can’t protect you from your own heart.”

And with that, he stood and left, the shadows of the Temple stretching long behind him.

⸻

You stood on the edge of the Temple’s landing platform, overlooking the city lights that shimmered like restless stars. The night was thick with soundless wind, your cloak pulled tight around you as the Force stirred in warning—familiar, heavy footsteps approaching.

You didn’t need to turn. “I thought you’d gone back to GAR Command.”

Bacara stopped a few paces behind you. Silence clung to him, like it always did, but this time it pulsed with something unsaid—uneasy, unrelenting.

“I should have,” he said finally. “But I didn’t.”

You turned, arms folded, studying the commander who had never looked more torn—still in his blacks, helmet in hand, jaw tight with restraint. His eyes didn’t meet yours at first.

“Why are you here, Bacara?”

“I overheard Windu talking to Kenobi,” he said, stepping forward, voice strained. “About you. About something changing in you.”

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

“And you came to see if it was about you?” you asked, more bitter than you meant.

His eyes snapped to yours. “No. I came because… I needed to know.”

The silence stretched.

You exhaled slowly. “Know what?”

He took another step, until you were within arm’s reach. “Why you’re in my head. Why I haven’t slept since we left Aleen. Why the idea of you with him—Rex—makes me want to break protocol, orders, everything.”

You froze.

“I don’t hate you,” Bacara said, the words sounding like they’d been ripped from somewhere deep and long-buried. “I’ve never hated you. You just… get under my skin.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whispered.

“I know,” he snapped, and then faltered, jaw working. “You were just being… you. Loud. Impulsive. Always standing up for the men, even when it meant challenging Jedi. Even when it meant challenging me.”

Your heart pounded.

“I didn’t know what to do with someone like you,” he admitted, voice low now. “I still don’t.”

You reached up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his vambrace. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”

His eyes searched yours—dark, tormented, warring with everything he was taught to suppress.

And then he moved.

The kiss wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, unfiltered, all heat and tension and fire. His hand curled around the back of your neck, yours gripped his sleeve as your cloaks whipped in the night air. It was a kiss born of war and silence, of frustration and longing, and the impossibility of it all.

When you broke apart, both breathless, he didn’t speak at first.

But his forehead pressed to yours, and for the first time since you met him, Bacara let himself be still in your presence.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said quietly.

You almost smiled. “Then we’re even.”

⸻

You were restless.

The training droids lay in sparking heaps around you. Sweat clung to your skin, your lightsaber still humming faintly as you tried to outpace the storm brewing in your mind.

Rex’s quiet steadiness.

Bacara’s raw, barely-contained hunger.

The kiss haunted you.

Bacara had torn a piece of himself open for you—just for a moment. And that moment had scorched you.

But Rex? He saw you. Understood you. Listened. Respected you. And you felt safe in his shadow.

But do you want safety? Or something that burns?

You didn’t get to dwell. The door to the training room hissed open.

Rex stood in the threshold, eyes scanning the wreckage, then finding you. He looked tired. Tense. His shoulders tight beneath his armor.

“I figured I’d find you here,” he said.

You deactivated your saber. “Not hiding, just… thinking.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

There was no accusation in his voice, but something underneath it—a quiet, almost desperate undertone.

“I’ve had a lot to think about.”

He stepped closer, stopping just a breath away. “Was it him?”

You met his eyes. “Rex—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he cut in, voice controlled. Too controlled. “But I need to know what I’m walking into.”

Your breath caught.

“He kissed you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked away, jaw working. Then:

“Did you kiss him back?”

The silence between you was louder than any battle you’d fought.

“Yes,” you whispered.

The answer struck him like a blow. His eyes closed, just for a second. “And what does that mean? For us?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

Before he could speak again, the door hissed open again.

Bacara.

You felt the energy in the room shift—like a lightsaber igniting in a dry field.

His gaze went immediately to Rex. Then to you. The unspoken claim in his stance was unmistakable.

“Captain,” he said coolly.

“Commander,” Rex returned, just as cold.

Neither moved. Neither blinked.

You stepped between them instinctively. “Stop.”

“She can choose for herself, you know,” Rex said, eyes never leaving Bacara’s.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Bacara said sharply, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m not some object you two get to fight over,” you snapped. “I’m a Jedi. Your general. And I deserve better than this.”

Both men quieted.

But the air between them crackled with something toxic. Territorial. Like two wolves circling the same prey.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said, voice softer now. “I didn’t want any of it to get this messy.”

“You didn’t have to ask,” Rex said. “Some things just… happen.”

“And some things,” Bacara said, stepping forward, voice firm, “are worth fighting for.”

You stared between them, breath shallow.

You had no answers. No clarity. Only chaos.

And two men willing to burn for you.

The silence was oppressive. No one spoke, but the weight of unspoken things pressed against your chest like a closing fist.

You stepped back, eyes moving between the two of them. Their postures were rigid—pride, anger, jealousy… possession. You hadn’t seen it before, not like this. Not so raw.

But now it was ugly.

“Do you two even hear yourselves?” Your voice was sharp—cutting like shattered glass. “You’re acting like I’m a trophy. Like I’m something to win.”

Neither answered.

That was worse.

You could feel it coming off them in waves—territoriality, rivalry, something primal.

“You think I want this? You think I asked for it? You think watching the two of you size each other up like animals is what I dreamed of when I became a Jedi?”

You hated the way your voice cracked. The hurt that leaked through the fury.

Rex’s brows furrowed—his mouth opened slightly, as if to explain, to offer some gentle word to ground the fire—but you didn’t give him the chance.

And Bacara—Bacara just stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight, refusing to retreat, refusing to feel. That wall was back, stronger than ever, and it felt like a slap.

“I’ve fought beside you. I’ve nearly died beside you. Both of you. And still—you can’t see me. Not really. You only see each other. This—” you gestured between them, “—this pissing contest? It’s not love. It’s not loyalty. It’s not even care. It’s ego. And it makes me sick.”

The hurt was hot now, crawling up your throat.

“I thought you were different,” you said softly to Rex.

He flinched. Just barely.

Then your gaze snapped to Bacara. “And you—maybe I wanted to believe there was more under the armor. But if this is what’s beneath it?” Your lip curled. “Maybe I was wrong.”

You pushed past them, the door hissing open at your approach.

Neither followed.

You didn’t want them to.

For the first time in months, you wanted out.

Out of this room.

Out of their war.

Out of whatever twisted, tangled thing was growing between the three of you.

You didn’t even know what you felt anymore.

You just knew this wasn’t what love was supposed to look like.

And right now, the idea of either of them touching you—holding you—felt like ash in your mouth.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving only the quiet hum of the training room’s systems—and the echo of everything she said.

Rex stood still, breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides. Bacara hadn’t moved either, like he was carved from stone.

The silence didn’t last.

“You gonna throw a punch, or just stand there brooding?” Rex muttered, without looking at him.

Bacara’s jaw twitched. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea.”

“You’re proving her right, you know.”

That got him. Bacara’s head turned sharply, a flicker of fire behind his eyes. “I don’t need a lecture from a clone who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.”

Rex stepped forward, shoulders squared. “And you think you did? You think shutting her out, giving her crumbs of emotion, and then snapping the second someone else showed interest—that’s any better?”

Bacara’s fists curled.

“I don’t talk,” he said flatly. “I act. I protect. I don’t have time for your soft Republic niceties.”

“No,” Rex snapped, “you have time to throw your weight around. You have time to glare and scowl and push people away until it’s too late.”

That hit harder than intended.

For a second, Rex almost backed down—but the look in Bacara’s eyes was enough to push him forward again.

“You think this is about me stealing her from you? She walked out, Commander. On both of us. Because we made her feel like a thing to fight over. Not a person.”

Bacara turned his back, pacing. “You don’t understand.”

“Try me.”

There was a long beat. Bacara’s hands were on his hips now, his head low, voice rough.

“I don’t know how to… do this,” he admitted, bitter. “I’m trained for war. For tactics. Not…” He shook his head. “Not feelings. Not wanting something I’m not supposed to want.”

“She’s not a mission,” Rex said. “She’s a person. And maybe if we’d both remembered that earlier…”

Bacara turned, face hard again. “You’re still talking like it’s over.”

There was silence.

Then Rex looked away. “Isn’t it?”

The quiet returned—cold, heavy, and full of the ache of something breaking.

Both of them knew they’d pushed her away.

Neither of them knew how to fix it.

But worse—deep down—they weren’t sure they deserved to.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.4

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

Anakin caught it.

So did Mundi.

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

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

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

Mundi raised a brow. “Careful, Captain.”

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

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

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

“She’s not indestructible,” Bacara said.

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

The room quieted again. Cold. Sharp-edged.

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

Neither Rex nor Bacara responded.

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

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

⸻

You hated caves.

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

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

Something foreign slithered beneath. Something droid.

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

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

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

You weren’t enough this time.

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

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

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

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

You hated what came next.

You toggled to the channel you never used.

“Master Mundi.”

A pause.

“Yes, General?”

“I need assistance on Aleen.”

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

“What’s the situation?”

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

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

Of course he would.

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

“You won’t have to for long.”

You hated that he sounded almost… kind.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, they found you.

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

Bacara moved first.

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

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

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

He opened fire.

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

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

The last droid fell. The smoke lingered.

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

He finally turned to you.

“You should’ve waited.”

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

“You could’ve died.”

You finally met his eyes.

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

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

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

“You held the line. Noted.”

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

⸻

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

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

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

“General.”

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

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

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

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

“You did well.”

You raised a brow. “Is that praise?”

“It’s an observation,” he replied.

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

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

You glanced up at him. “Then what?”

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

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

“No.”

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

“What then?”

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

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

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

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

“Too dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

A pause. You stared at him.

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

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

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

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

“Probably,” Bacara admitted.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“I didn’t mean all of it,” you said.

“I know that too.”

Another silence.

Then, from him, just barely audible:

“You’re not what I expected.”

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

“Waiting for someone?”

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

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

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

Rex gave her a sidelong look. “Do I?”

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

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

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

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

Her smile faded. “So her.”

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

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

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

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

The silence stretched. Rex didn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even he had noticed.

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

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“War on Two Fronts” pt.3

Captain Rex x Reader x Commander Bacara

The Jedi Council chamber was cold, even in the glow of the Coruscant skyline. The debriefing had gone as expected: Ki-Adi Mundi gave a terse account of the victory, Master Yoda nodded gravely at the intel retrieved, and Master Windu—your master—remained silent, arms crossed, dark eyes steady.

It was only after the others had filtered out that he spoke.

“You’re making waves,” Mace said simply.

You dropped your formal posture and let out a sigh. “That’s what I’m best at, apparently.”

He stepped closer, folding his hands behind his back, regarding you not as the strict Council member—but as the father figure you’d missed for weeks. “You were chosen for that campaign for a reason. You understand people, not just the Force. But you also understand the cost of disobedience.”

You frowned. “If I hadn’t stepped in on that first op, Bacara’s squad would’ve been cut down.”

“Perhaps. Or maybe he had it handled in a way that wasn’t apparent to you.”

You bristled, but he continued before you could speak.

“I’m not saying you were wrong. But war isn’t just about what’s right. It’s about cohesion. Trust. And I can see it’s wearing on you.”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I didn’t come here to cry on your robe, Master.”

“No,” Mace said softly. “You came here because you wanted someone to tell you that you’re not crazy. That it’s okay to be angry. Conflicted. Even… confused.”

You exhaled slowly. “He overheard us. Bacara. That night.”

Mace arched a brow. “And?”

“And now he won’t even look at me the same way. I mean—he barely looked at me before, but now it’s like I’m just… insubordinate and loud and—”

“You are insubordinate and loud.”

You gaped at him, offended.

But then he smirked. Smirked. A rare thing on his face. “You’re also brave. And stubborn. And too much for men like Bacara to understand—until they do.”

You blinked, unsure what to do with that. “So what? Wait for him to catch up?”

“No,” Mace said. “Live your life. He’ll either keep pace or fall behind.”

There was something final in his tone. Like the matter was settled.

You nodded and turned to go—but paused at the door.

“Thanks, Master,” you said. “For being on my side. Always.”

“I’m not on your side,” he said, but his voice was low, warm. “I am your side.”

⸻

That night, the base was quiet.

The city lights outside flickered like static, and the low hum of the barracks ventilation system was the only sound as you walked the hall in your off-duty robes.

You didn’t mean to pass the 501st’s barracks. Didn’t mean to pause. But there he was—Rex. Sitting outside on one of the stone ledges, helmet on the bench beside him, elbows on his knees.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you asked.

“Didn’t try,” he answered, gaze still on the skyline. “You?”

You shook your head and sat beside him. “Been doing a lot of thinking.”

“About the campaign?”

You hesitated. “About a lot of things.”

Silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The kind that existed between two people who didn’t have to fill space with noise.

“They’ve reassigned me again. The Council’s spreading me thin.”

“I figured,” Rex replied. “It’s what they do with the ones they trust most.”

You looked at him, frowning slightly. “You don’t sound like you agree.”

“I’ve just seen what it does to people. To Jedi.” His voice was steady. But when he looked at you—really looked—you saw something vulnerable, unguarded.

“You seemed… close to him,” he said finally. “Bacara.”

You flinched. “He barely tolerates me.”

Rex looked down at his hands. “That might be why it bothers me.”

You inhaled sharply.

There it was.

Not said explicitly. Not a confession. But something just as dangerous.

Your voice was softer now. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” Rex murmured. “Me neither.”

You sat together in silence, the city breathing below, the war pressing in around you. Neither of you moved.

⸻

The Coruscant base was unusually quiet. War never truly paused, but the brief interlude between deployments lent a strange stillness to the barracks — as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Commander Bacara sat alone at one of the durasteel tables in the mess hall, untouched rations on his tray, helmet on the table beside him. He looked like he belonged more to the battlefield than this sterile, quiet place — broad-shouldered, scarred, always watching.

Captain Rex spotted him on the way out.

He paused, almost kept walking — but something made him stop.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was something else.

He walked over and sat down across from him without waiting for permission.

Bacara looked up, impassive. “Captain.”

“Commander,” Rex said coolly.

A long pause.

“You’re usually on the frontlines,” Rex noted, more observation than question.

“So are you,” Bacara returned.

Another pause. They weren’t men built for small talk.

Finally, Rex exhaled and leaned back slightly. “I heard she’s being reassigned again. Away from you.”

Bacara’s jaw flexed, just once. “So did I.”

“That bother you?”

Bacara’s eyes lifted slowly to meet his. “No. Why would it?”

Rex gave a half-smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”

A muscle twitched under Bacara’s eye. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Good,” Rex said, not missing a beat. “Because I didn’t ask for an explanation.”

Another beat of silence. Tension curled in the air like static before a storm.

“She’s not like the others,” Rex said eventually, more quietly. “You know that.”

Bacara’s voice was colder now. “She’s reckless. Disruptive. Emotional.”

“She’s a Jedi,” Rex said firmly. “You’ve fought beside Jedi. You know they’re not all the same. And she’s more than that.”

Bacara’s eyes narrowed. “And what exactly do you think she is to you?”

Rex didn’t flinch. “That’s not your concern.”

There was a long, brittle silence between them. The kind that dared one of them to make the next move.

Finally, Bacara looked away.

“You think I’m the one standing in her way,” he said. “But the truth is, she’s always been on the edge of something bigger than both of us.”

Rex’s expression shifted. “And you don’t want to be there with her?”

Bacara’s voice was low. Flat. “I don’t get to want things.”

Rex stood slowly, pushing his chair back with a controlled scrape. He leaned on the table just enough to close the space between them.

“Then you’ll lose her,” Rex said. “Because I do.”

And with that, he turned and walked out — leaving Bacara alone in the silence he seemed to prefer, and now couldn’t escape.

Bacara didn’t move for a long time after Rex left.

He sat in the stillness of the mess, half in shadow, staring through his untouched rations like they were a battlefield map. He replayed every word. Every expression. The way Rex spoke like someone who knew her — not just as a General or an officer. But her.

He should have let it go. Should have pushed it down and moved on like always.

But something in him bristled.

Not because Rex was wrong — but because he might’ve been right.

He stood, shoved the tray aside, and left the mess with clipped strides. He didn’t need food. He needed space. Or quiet. Or a sparring mat.

His boots echoed down the hallway, past quarters and security checkpoints. Troopers passed him and gave quick salutes, and he returned them with curt nods. His expression remained unreadable, his jaw set like duracrete.

But inside his head, it wasn’t silent.

He could still hear her laughing with the squad around the campfire that last night on the front. Her voice — all heat and light, challenging him even when she didn’t mean to. The way she moved, the way she saw people — not just as soldiers or pawns in the field, but people.

And how she’d looked at him when he snapped at her. Like she wanted to understand him — and that frustrated him more than anything.

She was everything he’d been trained not to trust.

Unpredictable.

Emotional.

Compassionate.

Too much heart for a war like this.

Too much heart for him.

And yet…

He ended up in the training ring without realizing it. The lights were dim, the room empty, just how he preferred it. He stepped into the center and let the helmet seal around his head with a soft hiss. Gloves on. Mind blank.

He activated one of the combat droids.

It rushed him in the next second.

He didn’t hold back. Not this time. Every strike he landed echoed like thunder. Every dodge was surgical. Methodical. Brutal. A clean release of everything he didn’t have the words for.

It was only after the third droid dropped, sparking and twitching on the ground, that he paused. He stood over it, chest heaving slightly beneath the armor.

He didn’t understand her.

And he hated that.

Because something about the way she smiled at him like he was still human had started to unmake everything the war had shaped him into.

And now, Rex — kriffing Rex — was standing in the middle of that same storm.

Bacara powered down the remaining droids and left the ring in silence.

He didn’t believe in feelings. But he did believe in instincts.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t trust his own.

⸻

You didn’t like the quiet.

Not this kind of quiet. Not the sterile hum of Coruscant’s military wing, not the half-hearted warmth of your small assigned quarters. Not when you were about to be sent back out.

You moved through your room restlessly — tucking gear into a pack, checking and rechecking the contents, fingers twitching against the fabric of your cloak.

The debrief from the Council had been brief. Too brief. No details, just an assignment: diplomatic assistance to a neutral system teetering toward Separatist influence. Jedi mission, yes. But they wanted someone… adaptable.

You, apparently.

You were still muttering about the phrasing when a soft chime came at the door.

“Yeah,” you called distractedly, expecting a messenger.

The door slid open.

“General,” came Rex’s familiar voice.

You turned — and instantly smiled, your posture easing. “Captain.”

He stepped inside with his helmet tucked under his arm, a slight smirk on his face. “Heard you were shipping out again.”

“You know me. Can’t stay in one place too long or I start throwing furniture.”

He laughed — and it wasn’t forced. Rex was good like that. Steady, grounded. He had this rare way of being present without pressing too much.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping in a little closer.

You gave a half-shrug, then nodded. “It’s better than being stuck in strategy meetings with Mundi and his ‘visionary foresight.’”

Rex grinned. “I’d take blaster fire over that.”

You grinned back.

And that’s when the second chime hit the door.

You blinked. “Expecting someone else?”

“No,” you said slowly.

The door slid open again.

Commander Bacara stood in the hallway, arms behind his back, helmet on, armor scuffed — looking like he’d just walked out of a warzone and right into a social situation he didn’t know how to navigate.

You stiffened instinctively. “Commander.”

“General.” His voice was flat.

Rex, ever the professional, nodded politely. “Commander Bacara.”

“Captain,” Bacara said, equally neutral.

The tension in the room thickened immediately.

You cleared your throat and gestured toward your half-packed gear. “Wasn’t expecting visitors.”

Bacara didn’t move from the doorway. “I came to… check in. Before your departure.”

You blinked. He hadn’t spoken more than a sentence to you at a time in weeks. “That’s… thoughtful.”

“I don’t do ‘thoughtful,’” he said stiffly. “Just wanted to ensure you were briefed properly.”

“I am,” you said gently. “But thank you.”

A long pause.

Rex glanced between the two of you. His brow furrowed just slightly.

You watched Bacara’s shoulders shift — only barely, but enough. He was about to say something else.

And then he saw Rex’s hand resting lightly on the edge of your desk. The proximity. The quiet ease in your posture. The subtle, familiar tension between people who understood each other.

Whatever Bacara had come to say died behind the visor.

“If you’re adequately prepared, I won’t take more of your time,” he said crisply.

You almost said something — but then he gave you a short nod and turned on his heel.

The door slid shut behind him.

You exhaled.

Rex didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, a small furrow between his brows.

“You okay?” he asked again — this time quieter.

You gave a strained smile. “Never better.”

But your eyes were still on the door.

And something about the way Bacara hadn’t looked back left you more shaken than you wanted to admit.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

My characters are so happy right now :) Should I... ruin... everything?

They’re clones

omega

“War On Two Fronts” pt.2

Captain Rex x Reader X Commander Bacara

Christophis shimmered beneath a cold midday sun. The siege held steady for now, but you knew what the silence meant—another droid push was coming.

You stood outside the Republic command center as the wind curled through the crystal-laced streets, arms crossed over your chest as General Kenobi stepped beside you.

“You’re tense,” Obi-Wan said mildly, hands clasped behind his back.

“I’m Jedi,” you replied. “Tense is the brand.”

He chuckled softly. “You sound more like your former Master every day.”

You side-eyed him. “Don’t insult me.”

Kenobi smiled, and the two of you shared a brief, familiar quiet. He was warmth where Mace was fire. Less demanding, more wry. But you never doubted his strength.

He gestured for you to follow him back inside. “Cody and Rex have uncovered something troubling.”

⸻

Inside the war room, the holomap flickered with overlapping reports of enemy troop movements—ones the Separatists shouldn’t have been able to predict.

Cody looked up. “We’ve been compromised.”

You frowned, stepping beside Rex. “Hacked?”

“Worse,” Rex muttered, jaw tight. “Someone inside fed the droids our plans.”

Kenobi’s brow furrowed. “You’re certain?”

“We checked the comms logs, troop assignments. It had to be someone in the barracks,” Cody said.

You exchanged a glance with Rex.

“This wasn’t a droid slicing into our systems,” you said. “This was betrayal.”

Obi-Wan and Anakin headed out shortly after—to track down Ventress, whom they suspected had made direct contact with the traitor. You watched them vanish over the ridge, then turned back toward the barracks.

Cody nodded to Rex. “We do this quiet.”

You, Rex, and Cody questioned each of the troopers in the unit, keeping it routine. Nothing tipped you off—until Rex noticed something Slick had said.

Cody turned to you, “General,” he said, furious, “he knew the layout. Accessed the codes. Blasted his own squad’s quarters to cover his tracks.”

The rest came fast—tracking him to the weapons depot, where he’d set explosives to destroy Republic munitions.

Slick ranted as Cody and Rex finally brought him down. You stood at the edge, watching the aftermath, pulse still hammering.

“I was freeing myself!” Slick yelled. “We’re slaves—bred for war, thrown into battles without choice. You’re all too blind to see it!”

“You betrayed brothers,” Rex bit out. “Not just orders. Us.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t—not right then. You looked to Cody, who was already organizing a sweep of remaining supply caches.

“Reinforce the northern sector,” you told Rex, your voice steady. “We can’t let them think this rattled us.”

“Yes, General.”

He started to move, but paused. “Do you think he was right?”

You looked at him, really looked.

“No,” you said quietly. “You aren’t slaves. You’re soldiers. But that doesn’t mean the Republic treats you right.”

A small flicker passed over his face—something like surprise. And something else beneath it.

Respect.

You didn’t linger. You turned back to the ruined depot and the traitor being dragged away.

But the next time Rex looked at you, it was different.

⸻

The air over Christophis was charged with static and tension—thick enough to choke on. The Separatists had dug in deeper, the front line stretching like a fraying wire. Crystal shards and smoldering wreckage dotted the skyline.

You stood atop the forward command platform beside Rex and Anakin, squinting through macrobinoculars as waves of droids advanced, relentless.

“Cody’s holding the right flank,” Rex reported. “But not for long.”

Anakin shifted beside you. “Then we take the pressure off.”

You lowered the binocs, nodding. “We push up the main thoroughfare. Hard and fast. Break their rhythm.”

Rex gave a short nod. “I’ll get the men ready.”

As he turned, Anakin glanced sideways at you. “Not bad, General. Starting to think you’re enjoying our messes.”

“I was trained by Windu. Messes are my baseline,” you said, arching a brow.

Anakin grinned. “You ever get tired of being reassigned?”

You opened your mouth to answer—but the sudden thrum of a descending transport drew your attention skyward. A Jedi cruiser broke the cloudline, dropping a low-altitude shuttle near your position.

A moment later, the boarding ramp hissed open—and out strode a young Togruta girl with fire in her stride and determination on her face.

“Jedi reinforcements?” Rex asked, squinting.

You stepped forward as she approached. “She’s just a kid…”

“I’m not ‘just a kid,’” the girl interrupted, planting herself in front of you and Anakin. “I’m Ahsoka Tano. Jedi Padawan. Assigned by Master Yoda.”

Anakin blinked. “Assigned to who?”

“To you,” Ahsoka replied, chin lifted proudly. “Master Skywalker.”

You looked between them, watching the shock play across Anakin’s face, and bit back a smile.

“Well,” you said quietly, “have fun with that.”

But Ahsoka wasn’t done. She turned to you next, eyes bright with news.

“And you, General,” she added. “I have orders for your redeployment. The Council needs you on Jabiim.”

Your heart skipped.

Jabiim.

The mud planet. The fractured native clans. The ghosts.

“I served there as a Padawan,” you said. “Years ago.”

Ahsoka nodded. “The Council said your connection with the local resistance could help rebuild diplomacy. They’re trying to avoid civilian casualties. You will be aiding Master Mundi and his men”

You didn’t answer right away. The weight of it pressed into your chest—not just another mission. Not just more fighting.

But Bacara.

And Mundi.

Anakin folded his arms, expression darkening. “You just got here. They’re moving you again?”

You glanced at him. “It’s war, Skywalker.”

He shook his head. “It’s bad planning.”

Rex was quiet beside you, unreadable behind his helmet.

You finally turned to him. “You’ve got good people, Captain. You’ll win this without me.”

He hesitated for the briefest beat before nodding. “Safe travels, General.”

You turned back toward the shuttle, Ahsoka falling into step beside you. “They’re expecting you to land by nightfall.”

“And I expect to be muddy by morning,” you muttered.

You didn’t look back.

But you felt it—that unmistakable flicker of attachment. The way a battlefront had started to feel like home. The way one quiet, steady clone had started to make you hesitate before stepping onto a ship.

You swallowed it.

And walked away.

⸻

The rain on Jabiim hadn’t changed.

It greeted you like an old foe—relentless, icy, and soaking through every layer of your robes before you even stepped off the gunship. The scent of wet metal and rot filled your lungs, the familiar churn of mud underfoot as clone boots squelched around you.

You blinked against the downpour, lifting your hood as a group of Jabiimi locals approached. Dressed in patchwork armor and soaked tunics, they looked rougher than you remembered—but their leader, a grizzled woman with salt-and-pepper braids, smiled the moment she saw you.

“Jedi!” she called out. “I didn’t believe it when they said it was you.”

You moved forward and clasped her arm, shoulder to shoulder in the Jabiimi way. “Reya. Still not dead?”

“Disappointed?” she asked with a sharp grin.

“Honestly, yeah. I was sure you’d be the one to get pancaked by an AT-TE trying to punch it.”

She barked a laugh, and a few of her men chuckled behind her. The rain ran down your face, but you didn’t care—not here.

“Still the same sharp tongue,” Reya said. “But older. Heavier.”

You looked toward the ridgelines beyond the base, where smoke curled from recent skirmishes.

“We all are.”

⸻

The command tent was warm in comparison, though the heat came mostly from tension.

Master Ki-Adi-Mundi was hunched over a holomap, his long fingers tapping as he scrolled through topography. Bacara stood at his side, arms folded, helmet tucked beneath one arm. He glanced up as you entered—and then promptly looked away.

“General,” Mundi greeted without looking up. “Your arrival was later than expected.”

You raised a brow. “Nice to see you too, Master Mundi. The diplomatic welcome from the Jabiimi slowed us down.”

“They do have a flair for unnecessary tradition,” he replied, dry as bone.

You stifled a sigh and stepped closer. “They trust me. That’ll matter when this turns ugly.”

Mundi didn’t argue—but didn’t agree either.

Instead, he gestured toward the glowing red marks on the map. “Separatist forces have split across the valley. We’ll need a two-pronged advance.”

You exchanged a brief glance with Bacara. “I assume I’m taking one side?”

“Yes,” Mundi said. “And Commander Bacara will accompany you.”

You didn’t miss the subtle way Bacara’s jaw shifted.

Later, outside the command tent, the rain had lightened to a misty drizzle. You and Bacara walked in silence through the makeshift perimeter. Troopers moved past, saluting. The mud clung to everything.

“You’re quiet,” you finally said, side-eyeing him. “More than usual.”

“I prefer action to small talk,” he replied, eyes scanning the treeline.

You folded your arms, then smirked. “Well. I’d try to get you to like me, but it’s clear you already hate Master Mundi more.”

For the first time since you’d arrived, Bacara blinked—and something flickered across his face. A twitch of the mouth. Maybe even a grin. You weren’t sure. But it was enough.

“He’s… not ideal,” Bacara said at last.

You raised a brow. “That was practically gossip. Careful, Commander.”

He didn’t respond, but the tension between you had eased. Slightly.

You stepped up beside him. “You don’t have to like me. But we fight better when we understand each other.”

“I understand you fine, General,” Bacara said, looking forward. “You don’t like being told what to do. You take risks. You talk too much.”

You hummed. “And yet, somehow, you haven’t shot me.”

“There’s still time.”

The ghost of a smirk tugged at your lips as you looked out across the field. Rain still fell. The mud still swallowed boots whole. But something was shifting. Just a little.

You’d crack his armor eventually.

One way or another.

⸻

The dawn on Jabiim was little more than a pale bruise behind stormclouds.

Visibility was poor. The mist clung to the ground like a second skin. The entire platoon moved like wraiths over the muddy terrain, their white armor dulled with grime. Bacara led the charge, as always, silent and swift. You followed at his flank, your saber unlit for now, your mind scanning for movement through the Force.

This mission was simple: flush out a Separatist munitions outpost built into the cliffs east of the valley before reinforcements arrived. Quiet, fast, sharp. That was Bacara’s way.

And there had been no room for questioning it.

He hadn’t assigned you anything. He’d informed you. “You’ll be on overwatch. Do not break formation unless ordered,” he’d said back at camp, his voice clipped and precise. “This is not a Jedi operation. This is military execution.”

You weren’t used to being spoken to like a cadet.

As you crested the final ridge, you crouched next to Bacara. He was scanning the outpost below, HUD flickering, speaking quietly into his comm to his men.

“Squad A—flank left. Squad B, take high ground on that outcrop. We breach in five.”

You watched him for a beat, then leaned close.

“Got a plan for the anti-armor cannons on the eastern side?”

He didn’t look at you. “They’ll be dealt with.”

“Your definition of ‘dealt with’ usually involves body bags.”

Bacara finally turned, visor gleaming. “My definition of ‘dealt with’ ends with mission success. You’re on overwatch, remember?”

You exhaled slowly, not wanting to escalate. “I’m trying to work with you, Commander. If you’d communicate—”

“Trust is earned, not given,” he said sharply. “And so far, all I’ve seen is impulsiveness, disobedience, and sentimentality.”

You stared at him, something sharp catching behind your ribs.

“I save lives,” you said. “You bury them.”

Bacara’s tone went cold. “And yet, you’re here. Assigned to my unit. That should tell you something.”

He turned without another word, barking orders to his troops as they began moving into position.

⸻

The assault was brutal.

Explosives lit up the fog, and Separatist fire screamed through the air. Bacara’s unit moved with terrifying coordination—drilled to perfection, ruthless in their advance. You provided support, covering fire, strategic pushes—but nothing too visible. Bacara didn’t want theatrics. He wanted precision.

It worked.

By the time you moved into the outpost interior, only a few scattered droids remained. You slashed through them with clean sweeps, the hiss of your saber illuminating the narrow halls.

But something still sat sour in your gut.

Back at camp, you wiped grime from your face and walked straight into the makeshift command tent where Bacara was debriefing.

“You reassigned Trooper Kixan.”

Bacara didn’t look up from his datapad. “Yes.”

“He saved three men today,” you said, stepping in. “Took a blaster bolt to the shoulder and kept moving. He’s loyal. Smart. Brave.”

“And slow. His reaction time compromised the left flank. He will be reassigned to support detail under a different unit.”

You stared at him. “You can’t treat them like parts, Bacara.”

“I don’t, General,” he replied, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I treat them like soldiers. And I do not have room for anything less than excellence.”

Something cold lodged in your throat. “You’re going to push them until they break.”

“They were bred for this,” he said flatly. “If they break, they weren’t made for war.”

You hated how calm he sounded. You hated how efficient he was. You hated how much it reminded you of everything Mace warned you about when Jedi strayed too far into command and left their compassion behind.

You turned to leave, stopping just at the tent flap.

“I thought Mundi was the hardest man in this battalion to like,” you said, not looking back. “But congratulations. You’re winning.”

⸻

The storm had broken sometime after midnight. Rain battered the tents with rhythmic violence, and the air carried that sharp, post-battle scent: metal, ozone, blood.

You couldn’t sleep.

Your boots sank into the sludge outside your tent as you paced, the glow of the communicator clenched in your hand like it could anchor you.

You stood still beneath the overhang of a comms tower and keyed in the encryption sequence. The signal buzzed—delayed, flickering—and for a heartbeat, you thought it wouldn’t connect.

Then, Master Windu’s image shimmered to life, projected in pale blue above your comm.

“[Y/N],” he said, voice like gravel smoothed by a river. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders relaxed the slightest bit. “You’re up late. I assume this isn’t a scheduled update.”

You scoffed. “No. This is a tactical emergency.”

Mace didn’t react. “You’re bleeding?”

“Emotionally,” you said, dryly. “From the brain. And the soul.”

He stared. “Explain.”

You leaned in like you were about to spill secrets forbidden by the Code. “Master, I swear, if I spend one more minute on this cold, miserable rock with Commander Iceblock and High Council Saint Arrogance, I’m going to lose my mind.”

Mace blinked slowly. “I take it you’re referring to Bacara and Master Mundi.”

“Who else would I be referring to?! One of them speaks like he’s permanently inhaled a blaster cartridge and the other talks to me like I’m still a youngling who can’t lift a cup without supervision!”

Mace’s brow twitched slightly. “You are still young.”

You pointed a stern finger at the holocomm. “Don’t do that. Don’t Jedi me. This is a venting call, Master.”

“I gathered.”

You slumped back in the chair, groaning. “Bacara reassigns clones like they’re sabacc cards. He told me I was ‘failing to meet operational discipline standards.’ What does that mean?! I beat his training droid record last month!”

“You are… not a standard Jedi.”

“I’m not even sure he likes Jedi. And Mundi just nods at everything he does like they’re some cold, creepy war hive mind! At least you used to tell me when I was being annoying. They just silently judge me like two frostbitten gargoyles!”

There was a long pause. You half expected Mace to give you a lecture. Instead, his voice was low. “You’re frustrated. That’s not wrong. What do you want from them?”

You sighed, all the energy draining out of you. “I don’t know. Respect? Trust? Maybe a little acknowledgment that I know what I’m doing?”

Mace’s eyes softened ever so slightly. “You want them to see you the way I do.”

You didn’t answer right away. But yeah—maybe.

“I can’t make them see it,” Mace continued. “But I can remind you that you’ve earned everything that put you where you are. Don’t twist yourself into someone else to win their approval.”

You smiled faintly. “Not even for peace and quiet?”

“Especially not for that. You’ve never been quiet.”

You laughed, resting your chin in your hand. “I miss Coruscant.”

“I miss not having to take comm calls at two in the morning.”

You beamed. “But you still answered.”

His mouth twitched. “Always.”

You grinned, wide and unapologetic.

“Get some sleep,” he said, his tone softening. “You’ll outlast them both.”

“I’ll try. Thanks, Master.”

The transmission ended, and for the first time in days, you felt like your balance had returned.

⸻

The frost crunched beneath your boots, thin white cracking like old bone as you followed the squad through the craggy ravine. The sky above was overcast—grey, as always—and your breath fogged with every exhale.

It was the first coordinated mission with just you, Bacara, and the squad. No Ki-Adi-Mundi. No diplomacy. Just a recon op on the edge of hostile territory. Quiet. Tense. Frozen.

You liked the clones. Most of them, anyway. Kixan—freshly reassigned—offered you a small nod as you passed. You gave him one back.

Bacara hadn’t spoken to you directly since the debrief.

You didn’t know why it irked you so much. He was never exactly chatty—but there was something pointed about his silence now. And it was beginning to wear on your nerves.

You kept pace beside him anyway, trudging over uneven rock as the squad spread out behind you.

“Terrain levels off another two klicks ahead,” you said. “If we angle the scan here, we can avoid the ridge entirely and still get clean readings.”

He said nothing.

You blinked. “That wasn’t a suggestion. That was a tactical note.”

“I heard you,” he muttered, gruff and unreadable.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did I do something to upset you, Commander?”

There was a beat. He didn’t look at you. “No.”

Liar.

You frowned, your hand brushing the hilt of your saber. “Okay. So it’s just me. Got it.”

“Don’t start something mid-mission,” he snapped. Not loud—but sharp enough to cut.

Your nostrils flared. “You’re not my master, Bacara.”

“No. But I am your commander on this op. And your opinion of me has been made… abundantly clear.”

You froze mid-step. “What?”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t hear all of your conversation with Master Windu,” he said, voice low. “Just enough.”

Oh no.

Your mouth opened—and closed. You felt your stomach twist.

“How much is ‘enough’?”

“‘Emotionally bleeding from the soul,’” he quoted flatly.

Maker.

You looked away, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks despite the cold. “You were spying.”

“I was passing the comm tent.”

You made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a swear. “Fine. Look—maybe I vented. A little. But you were being impossible.”

You made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a swear. “Fine. Look—maybe I vented. A little. But you were being impossible.”

“I was doing my job.”

“At what cost?”

Bacara stopped. You nearly walked into him.

He turned to you fully, expression unreadable behind the harsh lines of his helmet. “I don’t have the luxury of trial and error, General. I don’t get to make emotional calls and hope they work out.”

You swallowed. “You think I do?”

He didn’t answer.

You took a step forward, eyes locked on him. “I feel things. That’s not a weakness. And maybe I complain. Maybe I rant. But I’ve never abandoned the mission. I’m here. I’m fighting. Same as you.”

There was a moment—a flicker of something in his stance. Tension. Conflict. Maybe even a touch of guilt.

“I don’t dislike you,” he said finally.

You blinked. “You’ve got a strange way of showing it.”

A silence stretched between you.

He added, quietly, “I dislike Mundi more.”

You snorted before you could help it. “Well, now you’re just trying to flatter me.”

“No,” he said dryly. “That’s not what that was.”

And just like that, a crack formed in the durasteel.

Not enough to change everything.

But enough to start.

⸻

The wind came down from the northern slopes in sharp, whispering currents, cutting through every seam of your robes. The battle might have been quiet today, but the land was still loud—with frost, with silence, with the kind of stillness that meant something was always waiting.

You sat cross-legged near the squad’s makeshift fire, arms wrapped around your knees, watching embers dance. The clones had begun to relax, little by little. Helmets off. Gloves loosened. There was even the soft clink of a thermal flask being passed around.

Bacara hadn’t joined them yet. He stood off a few meters, half-silhouetted in the dark, arms folded, visor turned toward the stars—or the silence. You couldn’t tell.

You didn’t press him.

Instead, you looked at the men.

Gunner was talking with Varn, low-voiced but animated. Kixan nodded along, his smile tired but real. Even Tekk, the quietest of them, had cracked a dry comment earlier that got a snort from the group. You liked seeing them like this. Human.

You passed your own ration tin to Kixan and leaned back, letting the heat of the fire work on your frozen spine.

And then Master Mundi joined the circle.

He sat down with the composure of a politician, robes perfectly arranged despite the mud at the hem. He gave a slight nod to the men, then turned his attention to you.

“General,” he said. “It is good to see you integrating with the unit.”

You arched a brow. “They’re good men. Not hard to like.”

He gave one of his tight, unreadable smiles. “Affection must never cloud judgment. Familiarity breeds attachment. Attachment clouds the Force.”

There it was.

You smiled, tight-lipped. “I’m aware of the Code, Master.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said mildly, but it still grated. Like you were a student again. Like the weight of your lightsaber and the stripes on your armor didn’t mean anything.

The silence that followed was awkward—until Gunner coughed and redirected with a story about a wild nexu they’d seen in a jungle op once. The others followed his lead.

You joined in too—offering a few memories from a chaotic campaign with the 501st that involved a collapsed bridge, a flock of angry bird-lizards, and Anakin Skywalker daring a clone to drink glowing fruit juice.

That got real laughs.

Even Tekk chuckled, and Varn snorted loud enough to attract Bacara’s attention. The commander lingered, glanced at the fire, then slowly made his way over.

You noticed. So did the men.

He didn’t sit, but he stayed. Close enough to hear. Close enough to be seen.

That was something.

And then, quietly, Gunner passed him the flask.

Bacara hesitated—just for a moment—then took it. No words. Just a nod. But the men noticed. So did you.

The conversation rolled on. Light. Easy. Full of battle scars and ridiculous injuries and even a poor attempt at singing a Republic marching song. The cold wasn’t gone—but it felt distant now. Dull.

You met Bacara’s eyes briefly through his helmet, and offered a small, genuine smile.

He didn’t return it.

But he didn’t look away, either.

And somehow, that was enough.

⸻

The war was never really over—not on Coruscant, and certainly not in your head. But the campaign was.

The treaty was signed, the separatist stronghold had been dismantled, and the native leadership, thanks to your careful negotiations, had agreed to provide intelligence and safe passage for the Republic.

It was a hard-won, smoke-stained victory. You’d survived. So had the squad. Even Bacara.

Back on Coruscant, the base was bustling with returning battalions. Steel corridors echoed with familiar voices and heavy boots, but everything felt strangely muffled to you. It always did after a long campaign. Like you were half out of your body, trailing somewhere between systems and decisions you couldn’t take back.

You were exiting the debriefing chambers when you heard the voice—steady, familiar, a little softer than usual.

“General.”

You turned—too fast.

Rex stood there in casual gear, one hand loosely on his belt, the other behind his back. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, which meant you got the full impact of that steady, level gaze and the faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Standing just behind him was Ahsoka Tano, arms crossed, an amused but knowing expression on her face.

“Well, look who made it back in one piece,” you said, heart lurching before you could stop it.

Rex nodded. “Didn’t doubt you would, General.”

You walked toward them, easing into the reunion like slipping into an old coat. Comfortable. Familiar. Too comfortable?

Ahsoka stepped forward first. “You smell like three weeks of burned jungle and bad rations.”

You snorted. “It was three weeks of bad rations, but certainly wasn’t burned jungles.”

She grinned, then leaned in to give you a quick hug. “Welcome back.”

You were about to respond when you felt it—eyes. On your back.

You turned, just slightly, and saw Bacara in the distance, halfway across the hangar bay. Still in full armor, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.

He didn’t approach. Just… watched.

You blinked, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest, then turned back to Rex—and that’s when you saw it.

A tiny shift. A twitch of his jaw. The faintest flicker in his expression.

You weren’t sure what it meant.

But Ahsoka did.

She looked between the two of you, her brow furrowing slightly as she took a half-step back and crossed her arms again. Observing.

“Commander Bacara?” Rex asked, casual in tone, but not in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said. “We worked… closely this campaign.”

Rex gave a small nod, then glanced over your shoulder briefly. “He doesn’t look thrilled.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Ahsoka did, though. “Neither do you.”

The silence that followed was tight.

You tried to lighten it. “You’re both just mad I didn’t die out there.”

Rex gave a thin smile. “Not mad, General. Just surprised.”

That one stung. Not because it was harsh—because it wasn’t. It was honest. And distant. And something you couldn’t quite read.

Before you could say anything else, a summons crackled over your comlink—Council debriefing.

“Guess I’m wanted,” you said, already backing away.

You turned and started walking. You didn’t look back.

But you could feel two sets of eyes watching you go.

One like a shadow. The other like a tether you weren’t sure you could still follow.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

(A/N, I had to make up a few clone ocs as I could not find one clone name for the Galactic Marines)

“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

Hi, I saw request are open so I hope sending this is okay:). I had an idea that been lingering and I’d like to see if you could write it, possibly? Imagine a reader getting jealous about the friendship between Tech and Phee. I guess in this scenario reader and tech are an established couple? It honestly could go anyway you’d like it to:) My thoughts on this aren’t fully fleshed out so feel free to go crazy with this!:) I just love jealous tropes.

“More Than Calculations”

Tech x Jealous Reader

You didn’t mean to watch them.

It just… kept happening.

You were sitting at the workbench, fiddling with a half-stripped blaster that didn’t need fixing. From the corner of your eye, you could see them—Phee perched on a crate, animated, leaning closer to Tech as he adjusted something on his datapad.

She laughed again, this carefree, almost flirty kind of laugh that curled around your spine like a hook.

“That’s incredible,” she said, bumping her shoulder lightly into his. “You know more about lost hyperspace lanes than some of the old-timers back on Skara Nal.”

Tech pushed his goggles up, his voice as even as always. “Well, yes. I’ve extensively studied astro-cartography from several civilizations. Your planet’s archival inconsistencies, however, are particularly fascinating—”

“Oh, I know. That’s why I like talking to you.” Phee grinned, her hand brushing against his arm.

You clenched your jaw.

She didn’t mean anything by it, right? She was just… being Phee. Loud, curious, magnetic.

But still.

It didn’t sit right. The way she touched him. The way Tech didn’t even flinch or notice. You knew he wasn’t wired like other people—emotions weren’t instinctive for him. He didn’t register subtle cues, or the way someone’s gaze lingered just a moment too long. And he sure as hell didn’t understand flirting, not unless it came with a schematic.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Later that night, after Phee had left for wherever she stored herself when not draped across your crew’s day-to-day, you found Tech alone in the cockpit, typing furiously into his datapad.

You stood there for a moment, arms folded, watching him.

He didn’t look up. “I am currently cataloging several of Phee’s findings regarding Nabooan artifacts. Some of the data is poorly organized, but she has a surprising eye for—”

“You two seem close,” you interrupted, trying to sound neutral. The words landed heavy.

Tech finally looked up.

“Who?” he asked.

“Phee.”

He blinked. “Ah. I suppose. We have engaged in mutual information exchange on several occasions. Her questions, though often imprecise, are not unintelligent.”

You sat beside him, slowly. “You don’t… think she’s being a little too friendly?”

He tilted his head, confused. “Friendly?”

You sighed. “Touchy. Flirty. You don’t notice the way she leans into you? Or calls you ‘Brown eyes’?”

Tech frowned slightly, processing. “She is expressive. That is her personality.”

“Yeah, well, it’s starting to feel like she’s trying to rewrite your personality while she’s at it.”

There was silence. You hated how small your voice had gotten.

“I just… I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

Tech regarded you with quiet intensity, the kind he reserved for situations he didn’t quite know how to calculate. “Are you implying you feel… threatened?”

You stared at your hands. “I don’t know. Maybe. She’s got this charm, this thing that draws people in. And I… I know I’m not always easy. I’m not flirty or magnetic. I just— I love you. A lot. And I guess I just… worry that it’s not enough to keep someone’s attention.”

His brow furrowed, and then he reached out, gently brushing your hand with his. “You are not somebody, cyare. You are my person. I do not compare you to others. There is no calculation in that. No contest. You… are the constant.”

You looked up, heart catching.

“Then why don’t you ever push her away?” you asked quietly. “Even just a little?”

Tech took a moment. “Because it never occurred to me that she might need to be pushed away. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It does.”

“—then I will create distance. Immediately.”

You blinked. “Really?”

“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “Your comfort is more important than her enthusiasm.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. He squeezed your hand. “Next time, just tell me. I know I miss things. But I will always listen to you.”

Just then, as if summoned, Phee’s voice rang out down the hall: “Hey Brown Eyes, you got a minute?”

You tensed instinctively, but Tech didn’t even glance at the door. His gaze stayed on you, steady and unshakable.

“I’m currently engaged,” he called back. “Perhaps later.”

There was a pause. Then a short, “Huh. Alright.”

You could almost hear the smile behind it.

When the silence settled again, Tech leaned in and said softly, “May I continue cataloging your facial expressions now? I find them far more interesting.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him, right on the mouth.

“Only if you add ‘jealous’ to the data bank,” you teased.

He kissed you again. “Already done.”

Hi! I had an idea for a Bad Batch or even 501st x Fem!Reader where the reader has a rather large chest and when it gets hot she wears more revealing items and the boys get distracted and flustered? I love the stuttering and blushing boys and confidence reader stuff. Nothing too explicit or so maybe just flirting and teasing. Hope this is ok! If not I totally understand! Xx

“Too Hot to Handle”

Fem!Reader x The Bad Batch

You had a feeling the Republic’s definition of “temperate” varied wildly from your own. The jungle planet was a boiling mess of humidity and unrelenting heat—and your standard gear? Suffocating. So, you did what any sane woman would do: ditched the jacket, rolled up your tank top, and tied your hair up to survive the heat.

The result? Your… assets were on full display.

“Maker,” you heard someone mutter behind you.

You glanced back over your shoulder, smirking. Tech had walked face-first into a tree branch. Crosshair snorted.

“I told you to look where you’re going.”

“I was looking,” Tech replied, voice just a little too high-pitched to be believable, glasses fogging.

Hunter cleared his throat and tried very hard to keep his eyes on the map in his hands. “Alright. Let’s move out.”

“I don’t mind staying here a bit longer,” Echo said, then instantly regretted it when you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” you asked, strolling up to him. “Because of the view?”

Echo flushed crimson from ears to collarbone. “I—I didn’t—I meant the trees. The foliage. The scenery. The mission. Definitely not you.” He looked like he wanted the jungle to swallow him whole.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, muttering something about “bunch of kriffin’ cadets.”

You leaned toward him, hands on your hips. “Not enjoying the view, sniper?”

He gave you a cool look. “I’ve seen better.”

But the twitch at the corner of his mouth told you otherwise.

Wrecker, on the other hand, had absolutely no filter.

“You look awesome!” he beamed. “Kinda like one of those holonet dancers! Only cooler. And better armed!”

You laughed. “Thanks, Wreck. At least someone appreciates fashion.”

Hunter still hadn’t said anything. You stepped closer, just close enough that your shadow fell over him.

“Something wrong, Sarge?”

His gaze finally met yours. His pupils were slightly dilated. “You’re, uh… distracting.”

You grinned. “Good.”

He cleared his throat. “Let’s keep moving. Before someone passes out.”

You turned, leading the squad again with an extra sway in your hips—just for fun.

Behind you, a chorus of groans, a snapped branch, and Tech asking if overheating counted as a medical emergency confirmed one thing:

Mission accomplished.

⸻

You knew exactly what you were doing.

The jungle’s heat hadn’t let up, but neither had the effect your outfit was having on the squad. Sweat clung to your skin, your tank top clinging in all the right (or wrong) places. Every time you adjusted the strap or tugged your top down slightly to cool off, you heard someone behind you trip, cough, or mutter a strangled curse.

Crosshair was chewing on the toothpick like it owed him credits. Echo’s scomp link clinked against his chest plate as he tried and failed to keep his eyes off you. Tech had adjusted his goggles four times in the last minute and was now walking with a datapad suspiciously close to his face—like he was trying to use it as a shield.

And Hunter?

Hunter looked like he was in hell.

You’d catch him watching you—eyes flickering up and down, then away, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like he was trying to rein himself in.

“Everything alright, Sarge?” you asked sweetly, dabbing sweat from your neck and catching his gaze as it dropped.

His voice cracked. “Fine. Just… focused on the terrain.”

“Funny,” you said, stepping close, letting your voice dip low. “I thought the terrain was behind you.”

Crosshair choked.

Hunter exhaled, flustered and trying not to visibly short-circuit. “Focus, all of you. We’ve got a job to do.”

“Hard to focus,” Echo muttered under his breath. “Some of us are… visually impaired by distraction.”

“Visual impairment is no excuse for tactical inefficiency,” Tech said quickly, though his goggles were definitely still fogged.

“You need help cleaning those, Tech?” you offered, reaching for his face.

He actually jumped back. “N-No! That is—unnecessary! I am quite—capable!”

“Ohhh, she’s killing ‘em,” Wrecker laughed, totally unfazed. “This is better than a bar fight!”

“Speak for yourself,” Crosshair growled, barely maintaining composure as you brushed past him.

You were leading again now, hips swaying slightly more than necessary, hair sticking to your damp neck in a way that was definitely catching eyes. You tugged your top lower again and heard an audible thunk—someone had walked into another branch.

“Seriously?” you called over your shoulder, amused.

There was silence, then a shame-filled voice: “…Echo.”

You bit back a laugh.

Hunter suddenly barked, “Break time. Ten minutes.”

The squad dropped like they’d been released from a death march.

You stretched languidly, arms up, chest forward, fully aware of the eyes glued to you.

“Maker,” Hunter muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

You leaned in close, hand on your hip, voice like honey. “Want some water, Sergeant?”

He blinked at you. Twice. “If I say yes, are you going to pour it over yourself again?”

“…Maybe.”

He turned a deeper shade of red than his bandana. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

And just like that—you turned and walked away, leaving five broken clones behind you, questioning every life choice that had led them to this mission.

“Storm and Starlight”

Sev x Jedi Reader

It had been twenty-nine days since she went missing.

Sev knew the exact count, though he never said it aloud. He didn’t like counting things unless they were kills. Death was predictable. Comfortable. But her? She was something else.

They lost contact with her squad during an op on Felucia. Dense jungle. Hostile locals. Separatist interference. Command called it. KIA, presumed.

Sev didn’t believe it. Not because of some Jedi faith, but because she was the one thing in his life that didn’t shatter under pressure.

She annoyed the hell out of him. Bubbly, bright, constantly chirping about “hope” and “trust in the Force.” It should have driven him up the walls. But somehow, it worked. She worked.

And now she was gone.

So when the door to the debriefing room slid open and he saw her silhouette—filthy robes, a torn sleeve, a limp in her step—his mind blanked.

She paused in the doorway. Her hair was caked in mud and ash, but her smile still hit like a thermal detonator.

“Miss me?”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Sev crossed his arms and exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “I had wondered where my headache went.”

She laughed—light and unexpected, like rain in a war zone—and limped closer. “Is that how you greet everyone who comes back from the dead?”

“I’ve only seen you do it. Once.” He eyed her up and down. “You look like hell.”

“Hell’s got better lighting.”

Sev reached out, pulled her closer by the belt of her torn robe. “Where the kriff were you?”

“Trapped. Separatist scout patrol hit us hard. I got out, the others didn’t. I’ve been trekking across half the jungle, dodging droids and eating… well, I think it was fruit. Could’ve been eggs.”

“Should’ve been you that got eaten.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest plate. “Aw. You did miss me.”

Sev went still.

Her warmth, her voice, even the scent of jungle rot clinging to her—none of it should’ve made his heart stutter like that. And yet.

“I didn’t miss you,” he said, voice lower. “I just got used to the quiet.”

She looked up, eyes glittering like starlight. “Liar.”

And he was.

Because for twenty-nine days, he hadn’t slept right. The jokes didn’t land. The blood didn’t thrill. He kept expecting her voice in his comm, her humming in the medbay, her absolutely infuriating habit of giving everyone in Delta Squad an encouraging nickname.

Now she was back. Cracked and bruised—but still sunshine, somehow.

“You’re gonna die smiling one day,” he muttered. “And I’ll be the one dragging your corpse back just so I can punch it.”

She smiled, softer this time. “Then I guess I’ll die knowing you cared.”

Sev sighed and pulled her fully into his arms. “Next time you disappear, I’m tying a tracking beacon to your ankle.”

“Promise?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Happy May 4th! Hope you’re having a great weekend!

I was thinking a Bad Batch or 501st, or even 212th x Reader where they’ve been in a relationship (can be platonic) but after some time it’s gone stagnant.

Like how in relationships it takes romance and quality time to keep a relationship alive and in my experience it’s always the guys who forget they have to do more and not just get completely complacent. And the boys need to fight to get her back and keep her. Maybe slip in some jealousy?

Love your writing! 💕

“What We Leave Behind”

The jungle was quiet tonight.

For once, the rain held off. Just the hum of night creatures and distant comm chatter whispered through the dark, while you sat alone beside the supply crates, helmet at your feet and dirt caking your boots.

Cody hadn’t come looking for you.

Again.

He was always somewhere—needed, summoned, occupied—and you understood that. You always had. But lately, it felt like you were something he’d already won. Like he didn’t have to try anymore.

The warmth between you had cooled. No more late-night brushes of fingers or small grins in the mess tent. The distance had grown, and Cody hadn’t fought it. Hadn’t fought for you.

Bly had noticed.

The 327th commander had been respectful, sure—but his gaze lingered longer than it used to. He complimented your marksmanship. Laughed at your dry humor. Today, as you stood beside him surveying troop formations, he’d murmured, “Hard to believe Cody lets you drift so far. If you were mine, I wouldn’t take my eyes off you.”

It was bold. But his tone had been soft, almost regretful. And your smile… well, that had been real.

You hadn’t smiled in days.

Which was exactly when Cody saw.

And said nothing.

Until now.

“There you are.”

His voice rolled low from the shadows. You looked up and found him leaning against a crate, arms crossed, helmet under one arm, jaw tight.

“Yeah?” you said flatly. “If you’re looking for Bly, I think he’s still on comms.”

Cody’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not looking for him.”

“No?” you drawled, standing. “Funny. Seemed like you were staring straight at him when he spoke to me.”

“Because he was staring straight at you.”

You crossed your arms, biting back the bitterness. “Someone had to.”

Cody stepped forward, just enough that the firelight caught the tension in his face. “You think I don’t see you?”

“I think you forgot how to,” you snapped. “I think somewhere along the line, I became part of your routine. Not your choice. Not your fight.”

His brow furrowed. “This is all a fight.”

“Exactly. And you stopped fighting for me.”

He flinched like you’d struck him.

Silence stretched between you—tense, aching, taut as a live wire.

Then, softly, “He doesn’t care about you.”

Your eyes burned. “No. But he noticed me. And I haven’t felt noticed by you in weeks.”

Cody swallowed hard, stepping closer. “I never stopped. I just…” he looked down, then back up with something shattered in his gaze, “I thought I already had you. I didn’t realize I had to keep earning it.”

You were close now—closer than you’d been in days. Your breath hitched as his hand brushed yours.

“I’m not a campaign, Cody. I’m not some territory you claim and forget.”

His touch firmed at your waist, eyes stormy with something between guilt and want. “I didn’t forget. I just—got lost. I’m sorry.”

The kiss came hard—pent-up frustration, regret, longing. You clutched at his armor, grounding yourself in the heat of it. In him.

When you broke apart, gasping against each other in the humid night, you whispered, “Don’t make me feel like I need to be someone else’s, just to remember I’m still worth wanting.”

Cody pressed his forehead to yours. “You’ve always been worth fighting for. I just forgot I needed to keep fighting, even when I thought I’d already won.”

From the tree line, unseen, Bly watched for a moment longer, unreadable behind his visor—before turning away.

Tomorrow, it would rain again. The jungle would close in. The war would keep raging.

But tonight, Cody remembered.

Happy May the 4th Be With You!

Apparently drawing Codywan for Star Wars day is my new tradition 🥰

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.12

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.

The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.

And then—three knocks.

Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.

She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.

The screen lit up.

Fox.

Alone. No helmet. No men.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.

“I won’t stay long.”

“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.

Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”

“You always think too much before doing what you want.”

He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”

The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.

Fox’s jaw twitched.

He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.

“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”

“I don’t want you to.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.

Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.

He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.

And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.

For once, neither of them said a thing.

There was no need.

⸻

Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.

He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.

Safe.

Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”

“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”

He smirked. “You snore.”

“Lies.”

There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.

“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”

“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”

“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”

More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.

Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”

“Vos,” she sighed.

A pause. “Of course.”

R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.

From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”

More angry beeps.

“You can’t just light me on fire!”

Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”

Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”

A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.

Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”

She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”

He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”

Outside, GH’s voice rang again.

“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”

⸻

“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”

Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”

Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”

Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”

“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”

All three went silent for a second.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“Oh stars.”

“Oh hells.”

Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.

“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.

Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”

“Why?”

“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”

Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”

Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.

He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”

“Morning, gentlemen!”

Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.

He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”

Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”

Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.

Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.

Thorn’s blood went cold.

“You’re saying they—?”

“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”

Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”

Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.

And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”

The commander turned and left without a word.

Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”

Stone and Thire glared.

Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”

Vos grinned. “I try.”

Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.

His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.

Rhythmic furniture movement.

Round two. Or was it three?

He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It shouldn’t matter.

She wasn’t his.

But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.

And Fox—

Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.

Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.

He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.

Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.

But deep down, Thorn knew.

Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.

Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.

He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.

He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.

Not to him.

⸻

The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.

She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.

The knock came anyway.

She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”

It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.

She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”

“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”

She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.

She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”

“I know.”

“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”

“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”

He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”

She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”

He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”

And then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.

She let him.

For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.

But she pulled back first.

His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”

She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”

Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.

⸻

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.

For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.

She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.

“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.

Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.

But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.

“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”

But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.

A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.

She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.

“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”

There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.

He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.

But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”

He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.

“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”

You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.

The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.

She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.

She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.

The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.

And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.

⸻

The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.

In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.

She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.

R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.

She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.

“Come in,” she called without looking up.

The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.

The moment she saw his face, she knew.

He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.

“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.

Her heart dropped.

“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.

Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

“It’s Thorn.”

The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.

“No.”

“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Silence.

R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”

Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”

She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.

Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.

Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.

“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”

Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”

They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.

⸻

It was late.

The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.

She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.

Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.

She didn’t turn.

“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.

“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”

Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.

“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”

Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”

They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”

“That’s who he was.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Neither did Fox.

But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.

After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.

Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.

The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.

Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.

In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.

He didn’t knock anymore.

She didn’t ask him to leave.

He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.

Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.

She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.

One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.

“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.

Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”

That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”

She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.

“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I’m here. And I care about you.”

She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.

She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.

⸻

It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.

The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.

And Fox… was still hers.

Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.

She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.

It settled in her bones like frost.

That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.

He was going to the Jedi Temple.

“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.

“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”

She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.

“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”

She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.

Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.

She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.

⸻

The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.

The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.

It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.

But this time, it never came.

Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.

Commander Fox is dead.

Her world stopped spinning.

She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.

But he didn’t.

GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.

“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.

GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”

“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”

She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”

No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.

She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.

And now Fox.

The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.

He meant it.

But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.

Hours passed.

She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.

Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.

And finally—finally—she cried.

⸻

News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.

She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.

He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.

She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.

But she wouldn’t stop feeling.

So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.

When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.

When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.

It was only help, she told herself.

But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.

She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.

And then she began connecting them.

They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.

They were just people who remembered.

⸻

*time skip*

The banners were gone.

Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.

Everything was quieter now.

Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.

Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.

She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.

Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.

She was all of them. And none.

On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.

Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.

But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.

And yet, she remained.

When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.

Sometimes she said yes.

Sometimes she said no.

And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Previous part

A/N

I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.

She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.

Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.

“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”

“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.

Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”

“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.

R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.

Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”

“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”

C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”

“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”

GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.

The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.

She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.

This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.

Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.

Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”

She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.

The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.

The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”

GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”

“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”

Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.

GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”

The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”

R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.

“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”

She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”

R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.

They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.

The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.

“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”

Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.

And for now, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.

“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”

“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”

R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.

“Oh no,” GH muttered.

The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.

“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”

“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”

R7 let out a smug breep-breep.

“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”

The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”

Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”

“And Anakin?”

“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”

“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”

The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”

“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.

“I’m right here,” the senator said.

“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.

“And?”

R7 beeped proudly.

They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.

⸻

The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.

She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.

It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.

Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.

He stopped short. So did she.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.

“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.

“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.

“Healing. You notice things like that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.

Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.

Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”

She tilted her head. “About?”

His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”

A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.

Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.

“What—?”

They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.

Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.

“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”

“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”

R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.

Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”

“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”

Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”

R7 flashed red for just a second.

Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”

Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.

Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”

“He’s got issues.”

Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”

She didn’t argue.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“When you’re ready… come find me.”

And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.

R7 beeped once. She looked down.

“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”

R7 whirred indignantly.

“…But thanks.”

⸻

The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.

Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.

“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”

The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”

She blinked. “You cooked?”

“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”

She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.

Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.

That is, until GH-9 spoke again.

“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”

“GH,” she groaned, standing.

“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”

She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.

He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.

She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”

R7 beeped again, very pointedly.

“Not tonight.”

She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”

“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”

“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”

She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”

“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”

“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”

“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”

Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”

R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

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

Her planet. Under threat.

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

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

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

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

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

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

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

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

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

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

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

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

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

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

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

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

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

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

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

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

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

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

She took a breath.

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

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

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

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

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

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

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

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

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

She felt like a commander again.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

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

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

“It’s sacred ground.”

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

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

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

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

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

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

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

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

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

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

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

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

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

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

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

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

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

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Respect.

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

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

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

It disturbed him.

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

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

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

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

The trap was set.

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

She was a vision of history reborn.

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

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

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

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

Sniper bolts rained from above.

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

And then it broke.

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

The blast hit near the senator.

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

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

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

Her people faltered only for a moment.

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

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

It was something else.

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

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

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

Not here. Not again.

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

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

Too slow.

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

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

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

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

He said nothing.

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

Trapped.

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

With something to protect.

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

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

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

They’d won.

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

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

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

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

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

Another pause.

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

⸻

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Correct.”

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

He didn’t answer.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t get drunk.”

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

He stared at her, unreadable.

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

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

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

The silence hung for a moment.

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

He turned and walked away.

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

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

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

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

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

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

The beeping started next.

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

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

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

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

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

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

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

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

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

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

She flicked water at it.

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

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

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

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

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

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

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

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

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

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

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

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

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

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

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

BANG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The astromech let out a smug beep.

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

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

“You do,” the Senator stated.

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

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

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

⸻

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