Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era
⸻
They called her a terrorist now.
Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.
But those days were ash.
The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.
But not you.
You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.
You fought.
A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.
Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.
You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.
They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:
HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.
And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.
But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.
“Life likes to blow the cold wind…
Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”
⸻
The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.
Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.
Because he was there.
Commander Cody.
You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.
It hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.
He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.
And just like that, time rewound.
Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”
His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”
But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.
Now?
He raised his blaster rifle.
You didn’t move.
He didn’t shoot.
The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.
“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.
You took one slow step forward.
“Cody,” you said, voice low.
His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.
“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.
“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”
He said nothing.
For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.
Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.
He didn’t even look back.
⸻
Weeks passed.
You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.
But still… something gnawed at you.
The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.
You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.
Just in case.
And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…
“—Commander Cody. AWOL.
Deserted post.
Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.
Do not engage without support.
Consider highly dangerous.”
You stopped breathing.
He left.
He left.
Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.
But you knew you had to.
⸻
You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.
The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.
He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
You stepped into the firelight without a word.
His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.
“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.
You swallowed. “You left.”
“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”
Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.
Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”
You moved toward him, every step heavy.
“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.
He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.
“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.
“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”
He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”
You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.
“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.
Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”
You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”
He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”
And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.
You’re writing is amazing! I had two things
1: What is a trope you love writing?
2: Can there be a Bad batch x reader, where she’s loves to cook. When she joins them she cooks for them and they love her cooking (once they get used to having something other than ration bars). Maybe she even sends them with packed lunches for when they go off.
Thank you x
I don’t have a trope in particular I like writing, but I’m a sucker for a good enemies to lovers or anything angsty or tragic
⸻
⸻
They weren’t sure what to make of you at first.
A civilian-turned-ally. Handy in a fight, steady under pressure, and weirdly good at organizing their storage crates. But most of all, you cooked. Like, really cooked.
No one had expected it—not after surviving off ration bars, battlefield meals, and the occasional mystery stew Crosshair pretended didn’t come from a can. But then you’d shown up with a patched-together portable burner and the stubborn attitude of someone determined to make something edible from nothing. And you did.
The first time you cooked, it had stunned them into silence.
The scent of simmering broth wafted through the corridors of the Marauder, followed by spices and roasted meat and something buttery that made Wrecker’s eyes water.
Tech was the first to speak, nose twitching. “That is not protein paste.”
“Unless someone’s finally weaponized it,” Echo said, cautiously hopeful.
Hunter didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned in the doorway of the galley with arms crossed, watching the way you moved—calm, focused, humming to yourself as you stirred a bubbling pot. There was something disarming about the scene. Domestic. Gentle. Strange.
Crosshair gave a low whistle from where he lounged. “Are we keeping this one?”
No one answered. But no one said no.
⸻
It became tradition fast.
You cooked whenever there was downtime, wherever there were ingredients. You scavenged herbs on jungle moons, traded for spices in backwater towns, stretched every credit and crumb into something warm. Something human. You’d hand them plates and bowls and containers like they were weapons before a battle—only these made them feel… grounded.
Every day you could. Breakfasts on quiet mornings. Late dinners after brutal missions. You adapted what ingredients you had, learned what they each liked—Tech hated onions but loved citrus, Crosshair liked spicy food that burned the tongue, Echo had a sweet tooth he tried to hide, and Hunter… Hunter liked comfort food. He’d never say it out loud, but you caught the softness in his expression whenever you made something simple and warm. Like home.
They never asked you to. But they stopped saying no.
Eventually, you started packing lunches for them. Personalized. Thoughtful.
Crosshair’s were spicy and wrapped with a snarky note.
Wrecker’s came with double servings and a warning label.
Tech’s included clean utensils and clear labels, because of course they did.
Echo’s always had a little dessert tucked in the side
Hunter’s would just have little doodle/picture you’d drawn
⸻
They’d left you behind this time. Not because you couldn’t handle yourself, but because someone had to stay with Omega. She wasn’t ready for this mission, and neither were you—still recovering from the last one, a blaster graze healing at your ribs.
The ship was quiet. Omega wandered in around dinner time, drawn by the smell of whatever you were cooking.
She climbed up onto the counter like it was the most natural thing in the world, chin resting on her hands as she watched you slice vegetables and stir broth.
“That smells better than anything I’ve ever had on Kamino,” she said dreamily.
You smiled. “I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.”
She watched you for a while, head tilting. “You always look really happy when you cook.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
You thought about it as you stirred. “Because food makes people feel safe. Even in the middle of a war, a good meal can remind you what it’s like to be human.”
Omega was quiet for a beat. Then: “You make them feel safe.”
You didn’t answer right away.
She squinted up at you. “You really care about them, huh?”
You nodded. “They’ve been through hell. They deserve someone to care.”
She grinned slowly. “You’ve got a crush on one of them.”
You almost dropped the spoon.
“Excuse me?”
She giggled. “I knew it!”
You tried (and failed) to play it cool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, sliding off the counter. “You pack lunches. You make special snacks. You stitched Wrecker’s sleeve when it ripped, even though he didn’t ask. You added hot sauce to Crosshair’s meal because he once said it tasted better. You kept Tech’s favorite tea even though no one else drinks it. And you stayed up all night once just to make sure Echo’s respirator didn’t fail after that dust storm.”
She paused, smirking. “One of those meant more.”
You turned back to the pot. “You are way too observant.”
She laughed. “So, who is it? Wrecker?”
“No.”
“Tech?”
“Definitely not.”
“Echo?”
“Closer.”
“Crosshair?”
You gave her a look.
She grinned wide. “Fine, fine. I won’t guess. For now.”
You stirred the pot again and said, softly, “It doesn’t matter.”
Omega’s voice was gentler. “Why not?”
You shrugged. “Because maybe it’s safer this way. Just being part of this… this crew. This little found family. It’s enough.”
She looked at you for a long moment. Then she slid onto a nearby stool and rested her chin in her hand again.
“They’ll be back soon,” she said. “You gonna tell them dinner’s ready?”
You smiled quietly, not looking up. “They’ll smell it.”
Hi! I was wondering if you could do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where they haven’t realized how much they like her and having her apart of the team because they didn’t want to get attached but then they see her with other clones having fun and being tactical and huggy with them. I’m a sucker for jealous tropes and the “she’s ours” stuff! Thank you! Xx
Featuring: Commander Wolffe, Boost, Sinker (104th)
⸻
The Bad Batch didn’t realize how much they liked having you around—until you weren’t just around them anymore.
You’d been reassigned temporarily to assist the 104th Battalion for a joint operation, something about terrain recon and hostile base infiltration. The job was meant to be routine. Easy. Quick. But it had stretched to three weeks, and that was three weeks too long for Clone Force 99.
“She’s fine,” Tech said for the third time that day, eyes on his datapad but noticeably less focused than usual.
“Of course she’s fine,” Crosshair muttered. “She’s annoying. Won’t shut up. Talks too much. Laughs at stupid jokes.”
“She does make the barracks less quiet,” Echo added, but his words sounded more like a confession than a complaint.
Hunter remained quiet, brooding in the corner, arms crossed. Wrecker finally broke the silence.
“I miss her.”
No one argued.
⸻
When they finally returned to Anaxes to regroup, they weren’t expecting to find you on the tarmac—leaning against a gunship, laughing with Commander Wolffe and his men.
You had your arm slung around Sinker’s shoulder, mid-sparring banter, sweat-slicked and flushed from training. Boost was tossing a ration bar at you like it was a long-running inside joke, and Wolffe—stoic, grumpy Wolffe—was standing beside you with the faintest upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
You laughed and said something that made the entire squad snort.
Wrecker stopped dead in his tracks. “Wait—are they hugging her?”
Crosshair’s scowl darkened. “Why the hell is she touching Sinker?”
“She’s laughing,” Echo muttered. “At his joke.”
Hunter’s jaw ticked. “Let’s go.”
⸻
You saw them before they could storm up and cause a scene—which, let’s be real, was already inevitable.
“Hey!” you called out cheerfully, waving them over. “Look who finally decided to show up. I was beginning to think you all forgot about me.”
“We didn’t,” Hunter said. The rest of them were staring daggers past you at the Wolfpack.
Wolffe raised a brow and drawled, “We took real good care of her. Didn’t we, boys?”
“Too good,” Sinker smirked. “She’s basically one of us now.”
“She is one of us,” Boost added, throwing his arm around your shoulders with obnoxious ease. “Got the bite to match.”
You didn’t see it, but every member of the Bad Batch visibly twitched.
“She’s not a stray,” Crosshair hissed, stepping forward.
“Could’ve fooled us,” Wolffe shot back, “considering how quick you were to let her slip away.”
“Wasn’t our choice,” Tech said stiffly.
“You sure?” Sinker smirked. “Didn’t seem like you were fighting too hard to keep her.”
You raised your eyebrows. “Okay, woah, no testosterone fights on the landing pad, please.”
Wrecker pointed dramatically. “You hugged him!”
You blinked. “You’ve hugged me!”
“Yeah but that’s different!” he whined.
“Why?” you challenged.
Silence.
Hunter stepped forward, voice lower now. “Because you’re ours.”
Your breath caught.
Wolffe’s grin turned downright wolfish. “Took ‘em long enough.”
You looked between both squads, caught between amusement and surprise. “So let me get this straight… the 104th is adopting me, the Bad Batch is reclaiming me, and I didn’t even get a say?”
“You always get a say,” Hunter said, quieter now. “But we want you to know how we feel.”
“And how’s that?”
Wrecker was first. “I missed you.”
“I hated not having you around,” Echo added.
“Everything was quiet,” Tech admitted.
“You’re mine,” Crosshair said, almost growled. “Ours.”
Your eyes flicked to Wolffe and his boys.
Wolffe shrugged. “Guess we’ll let you go this time.”
Sinker grinned. “But if they mess up, you know where to find us.”
You snorted. “What is this, the clone version of a custody battle?”
Boost winked. “Only if it means you come back for visitation rights.”
You laughed. “Alright, alright. I’ll go home. But I am visiting the 104th again. You guys are a riot.”
Hunter stepped closer, head tilting. “As long as you come back to us.”
You smiled, softening. “Always.”
The air between you and the Batch shifted—less tension, more heat, more home. Hunter didn’t touch you, not yet, but his presence lingered close, electric.
You turned back toward Wolffe and the others, grinning. “Thanks for everything, boys.”
Sinker gave you a two-finger salute. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“Yeah,” Boost chimed in, winking. “Just remember which pack took you in first.”
You rolled your eyes, walking backward toward your original squad. “You’re all insufferable.”
“And you love it,” Wolffe called after you.
echoed behind you.
Then, low—too low for most ears, but not for Hunter’s enhanced senses—Wolffe muttered to his boys, voice almost casual:
“She’s still got a bit of wolf in her now. Let’s hope they can keep up.”
Hunter stopped walking.
His head tilted just enough to catch the last of the words. Not angry. Not threatened. Just… cold.
Possessive.
His jaw flexed.
Crosshair noticed first. “Problem?”
Hunter didn’t answer right away. His gaze flicked to your back—laughing with Wrecker about something stupid—and then back to the 104th retreating into the barracks.
“No,” he said finally. “No problem.”
But when he looked forward again, his voice was steel-wrapped velvet.
“They can howl all they want.”
He caught up to you in two strides.
“We’re the ones she’s running with.”
⸻
There were moments—even in war—that felt still.
In the jungle shadows of Saleucami, as the sun threatened to rise, the camp was a blur of hushed voices and clicking equipment. But for you, standing at the edge of it all, it felt like the world had paused. Just long enough to breathe. Just long enough to feel the weight of your purpose settling heavy on your shoulders again.
You always stood alone when you could. Not out of pride. Not out of habit. But because solitude had always made more sense than letting others carry the burden with you.
You’d never been one to chase recognition. The battles you fought were never about victory. You fought because others couldn’t. You carried pain so others didn’t have to.
And still, the loneliness crept in—like frost under your skin. You were a Jedi. A general. A friend. A weapon.
But never just… you.
⸻
“You’ve got that look again,” Aayla said, stepping beside you in the fading moonlight. Her blue skin shimmered under the pale light, her voice teasing but knowing.
“What look?” you murmured, not looking away from the horizon.
“That one where you pretend you’re not breaking apart inside,” she said softly. “I know it better than you think.”
You let out a breath, slow and careful. “If we break, who picks up the pieces for everyone else?”
“Who picks up your pieces?” she asked.
You didn’t answer.
She turned fully to you, voice stronger now. “You’re not alone. Not really. I see the way Bly looks at you.”
That earned her a glance, half amused, half exhausted. “Bly is… complicated.”
Aayla smiled faintly. “So are you.”
⸻
Commander Bly had always been disciplined, precise, and steady—a wall in a storm. You respected that about him. Needed it, even. In your world of sacrifice and selflessness, he was one of the few constants who didn’t ask anything of you… except that you live.
He watched you the way soldiers watch for landmines—carefully, constantly, with the knowledge that one misstep could end it all.
He wasn’t vocal with his concern. He didn’t have to be. It was in the way he stood between you and danger, just a fraction closer to the line of fire. The way he followed your orders, but his eyes always scanned you first after every blast. The way he touched your shoulder when you didn’t realize you were trembling.
It was in the moments between missions—when your hands brushed in passing, when his armor was at your back as you meditated in silence, when he stayed up longer than necessary just to match your exhaustion.
You both carried the same truth: you couldn’t afford selfishness.
But love? Love didn’t wait for permission.
⸻
The ambush came fast.
You didn’t think. You never thought when lives were at stake.
The supply convoy hit the mines. Fire erupted. Screams followed. Troopers scattered.
You threw yourself into the blaze. Your saber lit the way. You pulled one soldier from the wreckage, then another. Smoke filled your lungs, but you kept moving.
Bly was shouting behind you. He didn’t wait either. He followed you into the flames, gunning down droids with lethal precision, cursing under his breath as you took a hit to the arm shielding a clone from shrapnel.
“That’s enough!” he growled, catching you as your legs faltered.
“I’m not done,” you rasped.
“You are to me,” he snapped. “You’re enough. You’re alive. That’s all I care about right now.”
But you couldn’t stop. You never stopped. Your life wasn’t yours to guard. Not when theirs hung in the balance.
⸻
Later, when the battlefield went still again, you sat by the med tent, arm wrapped in bacta gauze, head heavy with more than just exhaustion.
Bly knelt beside you, helmet off, eyes burning with frustration and something deeper.
“You think you have to carry the whole damn galaxy,” he said. “But I need you to hear this—you matter too. Not just your sacrifice. Not just your service. You.”
You swallowed hard, guilt rising like a tide. “I can’t stand by and do nothing. I won’t. If I can save them—”
“You saved me,” he said, quiet and fierce. “Every day, you make this war mean something. But if it costs you your life—then what am I even fighting for?”
You looked at him then, and for the first time, let him see it—the cold, lonely part of you that had grown too familiar. The part that wondered if you’d ever be more than just a shield for others.
“I’m tired, Bly,” you whispered. “I’m so tired of being the one who runs into the fire.”
“Then let someone run into it for you.” He reached for your hand, gloved fingers curling gently around yours. “You don’t have to be alone in this.”
A tear slipped down your cheek. You hadn’t meant to let it.
But Bly just wiped it away, his touch reverent. “You’ve already given enough. Let someone fight for you.”
⸻
The next morning, the wind shifted again, colder than before.
But when you stood at the front of the battalion, Bly was beside you.
And for once, you didn’t stand alone.
Hi! I have a request for Wolffe x fem!reader. They have a established relationship but Wolffe has been a little distant since order 66 happened... one night when he's sleeping in the readers coruscant apartment, she decides to ask him about it. Wolffe sort of pushes her away, thinking he's too broken and has already done too much bad, but she stays no matter what. She soothes him with some love and cuddles?
“Still Yours”
Commander Wolffe x Fem!Reader
⸻
The city lights of Coruscant cast a soft glow through the wide windows of your apartment, dancing across Wolffe’s armor where it lay discarded on the floor.
He lay on your bed now, back turned, shirt half-pulled on, one arm slung under his head like a shield.
You watched him breathe.
Even in sleep, it wasn’t easy. His breaths were shallow, uneven. Like he never really relaxed anymore. Like his body didn’t know how.
Since the end of the war—and the day everything changed—he’d been distant. Still present. Still Wolffe. But quieter. Withdrawn. Touch-starved but pulling away when you tried.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
You slid into bed beside him, soft and careful.
“Wolffe,” you whispered.
He didn’t open his eye.
“Are you awake?”
A beat of silence.
Then, “Yeah.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers across the back of his shoulder. “You’ve been… far away lately.”
He tensed under your touch. “I’ve just been tired.”
“No. You’re not tired. You’re hurting.” You sat up beside him, pulling the sheets with you. “You barely look at me anymore. You flinch when I say your name. You hold me like I’m something you’re about to lose.”
Wolffe turned over slowly, sitting up and running a hand down his face.
“Mesh’la, don’t do this right now.”
“I have to,” you said. “You think I don’t notice how hard you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine? You sleep in my bed like a ghost.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? That I followed orders that led to Jedi dying? That I don’t know what was real and what was the chip? That I still see it—them—when I close my eye?”
He stood, taking a few steps away like he could outrun it.
“I’m not who I used to be. I’m not your Wolffe anymore. I’m just—what’s left.”
You stood, quietly wrapping the sheet around yourself as you crossed the room to him.
“I don’t need the man you used to be. I love the man you are. Even when he’s broken. Even when he’s hurting.”
He shook his head. “You’re a senator. You’re out there fighting for clone rights beside Chuchi, risking your damn career. You still believe we’re worth saving. That I’m worth saving.”
“I do.”
“You’re wrong.”
You stepped in front of him, tilting his chin up until he had no choice but to look at you.
“I’m never wrong about you.”
Wolffe’s breath hitched, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.
“I let them die,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t even try to stop it. I just—followed orders like I always do. Like a good little soldier.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“Does that matter?” he rasped. “They’re still gone. I still pulled the trigger.”
You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, speaking against his skin.
“You’re not a weapon, Wolffe. You’re a man. One who has done everything he could to survive. And I know you. I know the way you fought for your brothers. I know how much you loved them. I know how hard it’s been for you to stay.”
His arms slowly, reluctantly, came around you. Tight. Desperate.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep you either. I’m not what you deserve.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss the scar at the edge of his temple, then rested your forehead against his.
“Then let me decide what I deserve. And I choose you.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your neck like he was finally letting himself feel.
You guided him back to bed, pulling the covers over the both of you, holding him close—his arms around your waist this time.
You whispered, “I’m still here, Wolffe. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without flinching.
⸻
hello! this is my first time sending any sort of request so i hope this is the right place! i absolutely love your writing and was wondering if you could write Hunter x a plus sized f reader (more specifically a reader struggling with loving her body). maybe sfw with a hint of suggestiveness? thank you!! <3
⸻
You stared at your reflection in the mirror of the Marauder’s fresher, scowling as you tugged at your shirt. It clung to the softest parts of you. The waistband of your pants had folded over—again—and if you stood a certain way, your stomach looked—
“Like a whole moon orbiting around me,” you muttered under your breath, smirking bitterly. “Galactic gravitational pull and all.”
It was your thing, after all. Make the joke before anyone else could. Keep it light. Pretend you didn’t care. Pretend you didn’t hurt.
You didn’t hear Hunter step in.
“You always talk about yourself like that when you think no one’s listening?”
Your heart skipped, stomach sinking faster than gravity.
You turned. “Well, yeah. Someone’s gotta say it. Might as well be me before someone beats me to the punchline.”
He didn’t laugh. Not even a twitch of a smirk.
“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and steady.
You raised an eyebrow, trying to brush past him. “It’s just a joke, Sarge.”
His hand came up, gentle but firm, stopping you before you could flee.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “Not to me.”
You tried to shrug it off, even as your throat tightened. “Relax. I’m not fishing for compliments. I’m just realistic, you know? Built like a bantha in body armor. It’s fine.”
He blinked slowly. Once.
Then, “Don’t say that about my girl.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted. “I haven’t said it yet, but you are.”
Your protest fizzled somewhere in your chest.
He stepped closer, and now his hand was on your waist—your soft waist, the one you avoided letting anyone touch—like it belonged there.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my hands off you when you wear that shirt?”
You blinked. “You mean the shirt that makes me look like a wrapped ration pack?”
“I mean the shirt that hugs you in all the right places,” he murmured, sliding his hand along the curve of your hip like it was art. “The one that reminds me exactly how good you’d feel in my arms. Or on my lap. Or under me.”
Your cheeks burned. “Hunter…”
“I love how you look,” he said. “But more than that, I love you. All the parts you try to cover. All the jokes you use to hide the things you’re still learning to live with.”
His tone was quiet. Serious.
“You don’t need to pretend with me.”
Your throat ached. Your hands twitched at your sides like they didn’t know whether to cover your face or grab his.
“I don’t know how to believe you,” you admitted softly.
“That’s okay,” he said. “Let me believe it for both of us until you can.”
You stared at him, all your words gone, and he kissed you—slow, reverent, grounding.
And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like something to fix.
You felt like someone wanted.
⸻
Later that night, you made another joke about needing “extra rations to fuel all this real estate,” and he didn’t hesitate.
He pulled you flush against him, kissed your neck, and growled in your ear:
“I hope you’ve got extra, sweetheart. I plan to spend all night exploring every damn inch of you.”
⸻
A/N - kind self inserted here, I’m a bigger girl and tend to make the jokes before anyone else can, not that most do
Hiiii! Could you do a Bad Batch x Fem!Reader where she’s like their new general (a force user but not a Jedi) where she’s trying to keep her distance to stay professional and to not fall for them but maybe she wakes up from a nightmare or has a really bad day and she goes to wrecker and sees if those hugs are still available? The others obviously see and a bunch of cute confessions? Love all the additions you add too!! Love all your work! Xx
The Clone Force 99 barracks were quiet for once.
No late-night sparring, no Tech rattling off schematics, no arguments about snacks between Wrecker and Echo. Even Crosshair wasn’t brooding out loud. Just silence—and the hum of hyperspace.
You should have been grateful. Instead, you sat on your bunk with your face buried in your hands, heart hammering from the aftershocks of a nightmare you couldn’t quite shake.
You weren’t a Jedi. You never claimed to be. Not trained in their ways, not chained to their rules. You were something… other. The people on your homeworld called you “Witchblade.” A war hero. A force of nature. The Republic called you General.
But tonight, you were just a woman shaking in the dark, trying not to feel too much.
And failing.
The vision—whatever it was—had left your skin cold and your chest too tight. It wasn’t just war. It was loss. Familiar faces, falling.
You told yourself it was just stress. Just echoes from the Force. Nothing real.
But you couldn’t stay in this room.
Your feet found the floor before your mind caught up. You moved through the ship barefoot, shoulders hunched, arms crossed like you could hide the vulnerability leaking from your ribs.
Wrecker’s door was cracked open. Dim lights. Soft snoring. His massive frame curled on a bunk made way too small.
You hesitated. So many reasons not to do this. Not to cross that line. Not to give in.
But still—you whispered, “Wrecker?”
He stirred. Blinking. Yawning. “Hey, General…” His voice was warm and rough, like gravel and sunlight. “You okay?”
You didn’t answer at first. Then: “Are those hugs… still available?”
He was already opening his arms before you finished.
You didn’t cry. Not really. But when your face pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you like a fortress, you breathed in a way you hadn’t in days. Weeks. Maybe ever.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured.
You nodded against him. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
You felt the bed shift behind you, and only then realized others had stirred. You didn’t need to turn to know Hunter was standing in the doorway now, gaze sharp but not judging. Crosshair leaned against the frame, arms crossed but brows drawn together. Echo hovered behind him, concern etched into the lines around his eyes. Tech, as usual, said nothing—but his gaze softened when it landed on you.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled, pulling back.
Wrecker held you a second longer, then let go gently. “It’s okay. You’re allowed.”
You sat back. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable now. Just… full. With things unsaid.
Hunter stepped in first. Sat across from you, elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself, you know.”
“I’m your commanding officer,” you said quietly.
“You’re you,” Crosshair replied, from the doorway. “That outranks any title.”
“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Echo interrupted gently.
“You were trying not to fall for us. We noticed.”
You blinked. “What?”
Wrecker chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, you’re not as subtle as you think, General.”
Tech pushed his goggles up. “Statistically, we have all exhibited signs of attachment. It is entirely mutual.”
Your heart stuttered.
Hunter leaned closer. “We don’t expect anything. We just… we care. And if you want this—want us—you’re not alone.”
You looked at them. Really looked.
These men—outcasts, experiments, your greatest allies—they weren’t just soldiers under your command. They were your anchor. And maybe you were theirs.
You exhaled, tension uncoiling from your shoulders like a storm breaking.
“Then… maybe I’ll stop pretending I don’t want you.”
Hunter smiled softly. “That’d be a good start.”
Crosshair rolled his eyes. “Finally.”
Wrecker just wrapped his arm around your shoulder again, and you leaned into it like it was the safest place in the galaxy.
Wrecker never stopped holding you.
He rested his chin on your head now, gently rocking you. “You don’t have to say anything,” he rumbled. “Not tonight. You can just stay.”
That simple.
You can just stay.
And so you did.
You stayed.
Sat nestled between the one who understood your silence (Echo), the one who sensed your pain (Hunter), the one who read your walls like blueprints (Tech), the one who’d never admit he cared but always acted like he did (Crosshair), and the one who’d give you the biggest piece of his heart without needing anything back (Wrecker).
Eventually, someone—maybe Echo, maybe Tech—tossed a blanket over your shoulders. Wrecker shifted, cradling your body like it was made of starlight and trauma. Hunter sat beside you, his hand finding your knee, thumb stroking softly in rhythm with your breath.
You drifted off like that.
Not in your quarters.
Not alone.
But safe, for once.
Warm, held, and finally—finally—seen.
ARC Trooper Fives x Sith Assassin!Reader
⸻
Hidden in the caverns of a storm-ridden world, the Separatist outpost buzzed with dark energy. Most didn’t know this base existed—most weren’t meant to.
You patrolled its halls like a shadow: cloaked in darkness, lightsaber at your hip, Count Dooku’s orders in your comm. You weren’t just his assassin. You were his favorite one—fast, brilliant, and loyal. Or so he thought.
The GAR must’ve caught wind of this place, because they’d sent two of their finest headaches in armor: ARC Troopers Echo and Fives.
One was bleeding. The other was missing. And your patience?
Wearing very thin.
⸻
You pressed Echo against the cold metal of a cell wall, your red blade crackling inches from his cheek.
His expression was equal parts pain and smugness. “You sure this isn’t personal?”
“Would it make a difference if it was?”
“Not really. I just like to know how far up the creep scale we’re going.”
You leaned in, amused. “Where is your partner?”
Echo raised a brow. “Fives? Trust me, he won’t let you take him alive.”
You tilted your head, amused. “Is he really that dangerous?”
Echo actually snorted. “No. He just has the worst luck I’ve ever seen. I once watched him fall down a set of stairs and somehow set off every detonator in the room. We weren’t even carrying that many.”
You blinked.
Echo nodded sagely. “The man’s a one-man catastrophe. If he’s still loose in here, odds are he’s somehow about to crash a starfighter into the medbay by accident.”
You smiled—despite yourself. “I’ll be sure to leave a fire extinguisher out for him.”
⸻
Fives was, predictably, not following the plan.
He was crawling through a duct that was way too small for his armor, holding a deactivated blaster, and whispering threats to Echo’s comm signal.
“Echo, if you’re not dead, I’m gonna kick your osik for getting caught,” he muttered. “Also, I may or may not have just dropped a thermal detonator in the hangar bay. Might wanna move.”
No response.
He sighed. “Great. Now I’m talking to myself.”
A cold voice echoed from below: “You’re not very stealthy.”
His eyes widened. “Oh—nope—”
You launched your saber.
Fives dropped like a sack of bricks through the grate, rolling with a very undignified grunt onto the hallway floor, armor scuffed, ego intact.
He grinned up at you from his heap. “Fancy meeting you here.”
You stalked forward, eyes narrowed, saber blazing. “You broke into a classified base.”
“Well technically, Echo broke in. I just… fell in.”
He scrambled to his feet, brushing dirt off his pauldron. “Look, do we have to fight? Because I’d rather just stare at you for a bit. You’ve got the whole angry-warlord look down, and I gotta say—it’s doing things for me.”
You blinked.
“…Did you just flirt with me mid-arrest?”
“Oh sweetheart, that wasn’t even my best line.”
You attacked.
The duel was fast and reckless.
You moved like smoke—twisting, striking, your saber slicing through the air with lethal precision. Fives fought dirty—improvised, unpredictable, ducking under your blade and throwing whatever he could find your way: a tray, a datapad, a coffee mug.
“Seriously?” you growled, batting it aside.
He grinned. “Didn’t hit you, did it?”
You kicked him hard in the chest. He flew back, slammed into a crate, and groaned. “Okay, that one’s fair.”
You advanced, steps slow and measured.
Fives coughed, wiped blood from his lip, and looked up at you with defiant heat in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” he rasped. “Kill me. Bet I’ll still look better dead than half the seppies in this base.”
You stopped.
Laughed.
Actually laughed.
He blinked. “…Was that a smile?”
“No.”
“It was. You smiled.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re insane.”
Fives pushed to his feet, panting. “Takes one to fight one.”
You circled each other, breathing hard.
“Why didn’t you run?” you asked.
Fives tilted his head. “Maybe I wanted to see what a Sith assassin looked like up close.”
“Disappointed?”
He smiled. “No. You’re terrifyingly hot. It’s messing with my aim.”
You exhaled sharply through your nose. This idiot. This attractive, sharp-tongued, insufferable idiot.
You deactivated your saber. “You’re lucky I find your stupidity charming.”
“You’re lucky I can’t feel my ribs.”
“…You didn’t break anything.”
“I break everything. It’s kind of my thing.”
You studied him for a long moment, head tilted.
Then you spoke, soft and curious: “Why does he call you Fives?”
Fives gave a crooked grin. “Because my number is CT-5555. Or maybe because I only ever have five brain cells working at any given moment.”
“…That tracks.”
⸻
You shoved Fives into the room beside Echo, who was now sitting up and mildly annoyed.
Echo blinked. “Oh kriff. You’re still alive.”
Fives grinned. “She likes me.”
Echo stared at you, then him. “You’re unbelievable.”
You smirked and crossed your arms. “He tried to fight me with a mop.”
“It was tactical,” Fives shot back.
“You fell over your own foot.”
“It was a strategic stumble!”
Echo groaned. “I’m surrounded by morons.”
You leaned against the door, eyes flicking between them. “Tell me, ARC Trooper—how long before the Republic sends a team for you?”
Fives shrugged. “Long enough for you to fall in love with me.”
You narrowed your eyes.
He winked.
And Maker help you—you didn’t immediately stab him.
⸻
The cell was dim and humming with tension. Echo paced like a caged animal, checking the cuffs on his wrists every few minutes. Fives leaned against the wall like he was on leave at 79’s, smirking every time you looked at him.
And you?
You’d made the mistake of hesitating. The mistake of not killing them when you had the chance.
Something about that idiotic grin. Something about the way Fives joked with death like they were old friends.
It irritated you.
It fascinated you.
You turned your back on them and checked the comm unit outside the cell. The transmission coming through wasn’t Separatist.
“—this is General Skywalker, approaching target coordinates. Standby for breach.”
Your blood ran cold.
No. Not now.
You tapped the panel. “What kind of breach? How far out?”
The droid on the other end fizzled. “Jedi cruiser approaching from the lower stratosphere. Their forces have jammed exterior defenses. Two gunships inbound.”
You spun around. Fives was watching you carefully now.
“You’re nervous,” he said softly.
You ignored him. “You said the Republic wouldn’t come.”
“I said long enough for you to fall for me,” he said, grinning. “Apparently they’re faster than I thought.”
You pulled open the cell and grabbed his collar.
“Whoa—”
You shoved him into the wall, pinning him with your arm against his chest.
“You know what’s about to happen, don’t you?”
Fives didn’t flinch. “Looks like the cavalry’s here.”
“Your Jedi are going to tear this place apart.”
“Yeah. And if I were you, I’d get real comfortable with the idea of changing sides.”
You glared. “I don’t have a side.”
Fives smirked. “No, you have a job. You follow orders. You’re good at it. But I’ve seen that look before. You’re not sold on this war anymore.”
You hesitated.
He tilted his head. “Come with us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous—”
“I’m serious. You’re strong, terrifying, weirdly hot—Echo agrees with me.”
Echo shouted from the cell, “I do not!”
“You’re not like the others,” Fives continued. “You hesitated. You didn’t kill us. And I don’t think that’s just curiosity.”
You looked at him—really looked.
And he wasn’t wrong.
But before you could speak, the walls shook. A violent tremor rattled the floor. Sirens flared.
They were here.
“Get down!” you shouted, instinct pulling you faster than thought.
The ceiling cracked open above, and the cell block exploded into fire and debris.
Gunfire.
Smoke.
Blue and white armor filled the halls.
You pulled your saber and moved, deflecting blaster bolts while droids scrambled to regroup.
Fives grabbed Echo, ripping the restraints off his wrists.
Echo stared. “You sure about this?”
Fives looked at you, still holding your saber like it wouldn’t touch him.
“Pretty sure.”
You blocked a bolt that would’ve taken off his head and glared. “You’re going to owe me for this.”
“Oh, trust me,” he grinned, “I’m already planning the thank-you speech.”
You turned your back on the fight—on everything—and ran beside them through the collapsing base.
⸻
Outside the base.
The fight was chaos. The 501st swarmed the compound like a storm. AT-RTs thundered through mud and smoke, and blasterfire lit up the sky like fireworks.
You ducked behind a transport with Fives and Echo, heart hammering.
“You’ve got to be joking,” you muttered.
Marching toward the base was Skywalker himself, saber drawn, flanked by Ahsoka Tano and Captain Rex.
You exhaled slowly. “I just betrayed the Separatists for that guy?”
Fives beamed. “Jealous?”
You shoved his helmet back on. “Shut up and run.”
⸻
Later. On the Venator.
You sat alone in the medbay, cloak scorched, hands trembling.
You hadn’t spoken since you boarded the ship.
Echo had gone to debrief. Fives… had stayed.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t answer.
He stepped closer. “You saved us.”
You laughed bitterly. “I doomed myself.”
“You did the right thing.”
“I don’t even know what the right thing is anymore.”
He knelt in front of you. “You didn’t hesitate back there. You chose.”
You looked down. “I’m not like you.”
Fives gently reached for your hand. “No. You’re not. You’re smarter.”
You blinked at him.
“I mean that,” he said, eyes warm now. “You’re terrifying. And brave. And brilliant. And also—can I kiss you now or do I need to duel you again first?”
You actually laughed—a real laugh.
Fives leaned in. “Is that a yes?”
“…Just shut up and kiss me.”
⸻
The ocean was too blue. The sky was too clear. The people were too… happy.
It annoyed you.
Not because it was bad—it wasn’t. Pabu was a dream. A sanctuary. A rare piece of untouched paradise in a galaxy still licking its wounds. But after everything you’d seen, done, survived, the cheerfulness of it all hit you like sunburn on old scars.
So when Wrecker waved at you the first morning you arrived—big smile, bigger voice, bouncing down the stone steps like a gundark on caf—you nearly turned around and left.
But you didn’t.
You stayed. You unpacked. You avoided him for two days.
And then?
He showed up outside your door with a grin and a crate of fresh fruit.
“You need help settin’ up?” he asked, already peeking past your shoulder like he owned the place.
You crossed your arms. “You just looking for an excuse to snoop?”
Wrecker blinked, then grinned wider. “Only a little.”
You tried not to smile. You failed. He saw.
“You smiled! I saw it, so no denying it!” he said, delighted, as if he’d won a war.
“That wasn’t a smile. That was… mild amusement. Don’t get cocky.”
“Oh, your smile is so beautiful!” he declared, plopping the crate on your counter like he lived there. “I’d love to see it more often.”
You raised a brow. “Flattery? Really?”
“Not flattery,” he said, serious for a second. “Just the truth.”
And just like that, your walls cracked a little.
⸻
A week passed. Then two. You stopped flinching when he knocked. You started helping him haul supplies. You let him drag you into town gatherings, always with the same grin and the same cheer.
“You’re definitely the only person I would do this for,” you grumbled once, dragging your boots through the sand on the way to a lantern festival.
“I know!” Wrecker beamed, looping a thick arm around your shoulder. “I’m special.”
“You’re loud.”
“I’m charming.”
You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You smiled again.”
“Damn it.”
⸻
One night, you found yourself sitting beside him on the docks. The moon cast silver streaks across the water, and Wrecker was humming some out-of-tune melody you didn’t recognize.
“You ever stop being cheerful?” you asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Used to. After Crosshair left, and after Echo… yeah. I had some bad days. Real bad. But Omega helped. So did Pabu.”
You nodded slowly.
He looked at you, more thoughtful now. “You got bad days too, huh?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly: “Sometimes it feels wrong to enjoy peace. Like I haven’t earned it.”
Wrecker shifted closer. His hand brushed yours, warm and solid. “You don’t gotta earn peace. You just gotta accept it.”
You looked at him, brow tight. “You make it sound easy.”
He grinned. “Nah. It ain’t. But I’m here. Omega’s here. You’re not alone.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat.
“I’ll do it,” you whispered after a long pause, “but only because you asked me to.”
“Do what?”
You finally leaned your head against his shoulder.
“Try. To enjoy it. This place. You.”
Wrecker’s face turned redder than a sunset. “Well, hey, no pressure, but—I really like it when you smile.”
You chuckled.
Then, finally—finally—you smiled again.
Warnings: Implied Smut, sexually suggestive
⸻
The air inside 79’s was a hazy blend of spice, sweat, and that old metallic tang of plastoid armor. It was always loud—always full of regs laughing too hard, singing off-key, and clinking glasses with hands that still shook from the front lines. But tonight?
Tonight, you had a spotlight and the attention of half the bar. Most importantly, you had his.
From the small raised stage near the piano, your eyes flicked toward the familiar ARC trooper leaning against the bar. Helmet under one arm, legs crossed at the ankle, blue-striped armor scuffed like it’d seen hell and swaggered out untouched. You knew that look. You’d seen it before—weeks ago, months ago. Fives always came back, and he always watched you like he was starving.
And tonight was no different.
Your set ended to a chorus of cheers. You slid off the piano top, high heels clicking against the floor, hips swaying just enough to keep his eyes hooked.
Fives didn’t even try to hide the grin that curled across his face as you approached.
“Well, well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “I think you were singing just for me.”
You smirked. “If I was, you wouldn’t be standing over there, Trooper.”
He stepped closer without hesitation. “Careful. Say things like that and I’ll assume you missed me.”
You leaned one elbow against the bar. “What if I did?”
Fives looked floored for all of two seconds before he recovered with a cocky grin. “Then I’d say we’re finally on the same page.”
“Is that what you tell all the girls at the front line?”
He laughed. “Only the ones who can make regs forget they’re one bad day from a battlefield.”
From beside him, Echo groaned audibly into his drink. “Stars, Fives, please—just one conversation where you don’t flirt like your life depends on it.”
“Jealous I’ve got better lines than you?” Fives teased, bumping Echo’s shoulder.
“No,” Echo deadpanned. “Jealous of my ability to have shame.”
You laughed, and even Echo cracked a smile at that.
“Don’t mind him,” Fives said, focusing on you again. “He’s just bitter no one sings for him.”
You sipped your drink, voice playful. “And what makes you think I was singing for you?”
Fives stepped in closer—just close enough that you could smell the faint scent of cleanser and battlefield dust clinging to him. “Because,” he said, voice quiet but confident, “you’re looking at me like you already made up your mind.”
Your gaze held his for a long moment. The tension hummed like music between verses—hot and coiled, teasing the drop.
“Maybe I have,” you said softly, setting your glass down.
His eyes widened just a touch. “Yeah?”
You tilted your head, lips curling into a half-smile. “You want to find out?”
Fives blinked. “Find out what?”
You leaned in, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of his pauldron as you murmured near his ear:
“If you want to come back to my apartment.”
Fives went completely still. Echo actually choked on his drink behind him.
“Stars above,” Echo muttered under his breath, turning away. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
But Fives? He looked like you’d just handed him victory on a silver tray.
“You’re serious?” he asked, tone equal parts awe and smug disbelief.
You shrugged, playing casual. “I don’t make offers I don’t intend to follow through on, ARC trooper.”
Fives grinned—bright, reckless, and so damn him.
“Lead the way, sweetheart.”
And just like that, you were out the door—with the best kind of trouble following one step behind you.
⸻
The room was warm.
Not just from the heat of tangled limbs and lingering sweat, but from the quiet hum of comfort that followed a particularly good decision. Outside, Coruscant flickered in the distance—speeders zipping by in streaks of light, a low thrum of traffic buzzing like the aftermath of a firefight.
Inside, Fives lay flat on his back in your bed, armor long gone and bedsheets pooled around his hips. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to stretch or sprint away.
You rolled onto your side, propping your head up with one hand and staring down at the man who had flirted with the confidence of a thousand battle droids—and was now staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to the universe.
“So,” you said, amused, “you always go quiet after?”
Fives blinked. “No! I mean—only when I’m… y’know.”
“Emotionally overwhelmed by your own success?”
He let out a weak laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Stars, you’re dangerous.”
“I warned you,” you said, poking his bare chest. “You didn’t listen.”
“I did. I just didn’t care.” He looked at you then, eyes softer. “You’re… not what I expected.”
“Because I invited you home? Or because I made you nervous for once?”
Fives groaned. “Both.”
A silence settled again, this one a little heavier—like something was unsaid. He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, then blurted out:
“Okay, listen. I’m so embarrassed I didn’t ask before, but… what’s your name?”
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
Fives winced. “I meant to ask! But then there was the bar, and the music, and then you invited me home and my brain just… shut down, okay?”
You stared at him. “We slept together, and you don’t even know my name.”
“I know your voice,” he offered. “And your laugh. And your—uh—flexibility.”
You grabbed the pillow and whacked him in the face.
He laughed against the cotton, muffled. “Okay, okay! Truce!”
“My name!” you said firmly.
“Right,” he said, sitting up slightly. “Please. I’m begging.”
You eyed him, then finally said it: “[Y/N].”
Fives whispered it like a secret. “Yeah. That fits.”
You arched a brow. “And what’s your name, Trooper?”
He paused. “You don’t know?”
“Of course I do,” you smirked. “I just wanted to see if you’d finally offer it without bragging about being an ARC.”
He rolled his eyes. “It’s Fives.”
“Fives,” you repeated. “Fives and [Y/N]. Cute. Tragic.”
“I vote tragic,” he said, falling back dramatically into the pillows.
⸻
Echo was waiting for him.
Not with questions. Not with judgment. No—worse. With smug silence.
Fives entered the room whistling, undersuit halfway zipped, hair a little too messy to pass inspection. Echo didn’t even look up from his datapad.
“So,” Echo said, still reading. “Did you have fun last night?”
Fives coughed. “Define fun.”
Echo finally glanced up. “Did you ever ask her name?”
Fives groaned. “How do you know about that?”
“Because, I know you.” Echo said casually, “her name is [Y/N]. She’s sung at 79’s for months. I’ve talked to her before.”
“You what?”
“She’s nice. Friendly. Has great taste in Corellian whiskey.”
“You’ve talked to her?” Fives said, scandalized.
“Multiple times.”
“And you never told me?”
Echo grinned. “Thought you were a professional flirt. Didn’t realize you were just a dumbass with armor.”
Fives pointed a finger. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally glowing from this morning.”
Echo raised a brow. “Oh, you’re glowing, alright. Like a reg who forgot the basics.”
Fives flopped into his bunk. “You’re cruel.”
“I’m accurate.”
Fives groaned into his pillow. “[Y/N],” he mumbled, testing it again like it was sacred. “Stars… I really like her.”
Echo just chuckled and returned to his datapad.
“You’re doomed,” he said lightly. “Better learn her last name next.”
“She has a last name?”
⸻
“Tech, you’re smarter than you look,” you said, fingers flying across the datapad as you recalibrated the long-range scanner’s neural relays.
Tech didn’t even glance up. “Is that a compliment for my intelligence or an insult for my appearance?”
You smirked, biting the inside of your cheek. “Maybe both. You’ll never know.”
That got him. He looked at you over the rim of his goggles, blinking once. “You are remarkably cryptic for someone so precise in data analysis.”
“And you’re remarkably dense for someone with a photographic memory.”
He opened his mouth—no doubt to deliver a factually loaded rebuttal—but Omega’s groan from the doorway cut him off.
“Ugh, will you two just kiss already?”
Wrecker let out a bark of laughter from the other side of the room. “They’re both so smart and yet so stupid. It’s kinda impressive, honestly.”
Hunter passed by without even looking up from his weapon check. “I give it three more arguments before one of them short-circuits.”
Echo, lounging at the gunner’s console, rolled his eyes. “I’ve seen better communication from malfunctioning droids.”
You turned bright red. “We’re not—! I mean, it’s not like that.”
Tech, completely deadpan: “I fail to see the logic in a kiss solving anything.”
“Oh my stars,” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’d think two geniuses wouldn’t be so emotionally… constipated.”
Omega laughed as she flopped into a chair. “Is that what it’s called?”
“Yes,” you said, shooting Tech a sidelong glance. “He’s got a whole datacard full of tactical strategy, but apparently no folder for feelings.”
“I have folders,” Tech protested, indignant. “I just haven’t… opened them.”
You crossed your arms and leaned back in your seat. “Well, maybe you should. Before I go flirt with Echo just to see if he can keep up.”
Tech’s goggles glinted as he straightened, spine stiff. “That would be inefficient. Echo’s humor is marginally less compatible with yours. Statistically, I am the superior match.”
The room went dead silent.
Even Hunter looked up.
“…What?” Tech asked, genuinely confused. “Was that not the correct response?”
You blinked, lips parting, but nothing came out at first. Finally, you leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table.
“Tech,” you said slowly. “Are you… trying to court me via statistics?”
“Well, that is the language I am most fluent in,” he said, as if it were obvious. “I have also calculated the probability of your reciprocal affection to be relatively high, based on prolonged eye contact, increased heart rate during proximity, and your tendency to brush your hair back when speaking to me.”
Your face went completely warm. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you,” he said plainly. “I simply haven’t known what to do with the information.”
Your heart stuttered—because for all his clinical language, there was vulnerability behind it. Soft. Honest. Tech didn’t lie. He just struggled to feel out loud.
You offered a small smile. “You don’t have to do anything… except meet me halfway.”
He tilted his head. “Can you define halfway in this context?”
You stood up, stepped in front of him, and placed your hand gently on the side of his face—just enough pressure for his breath to catch. He froze like a statue.
“This,” you whispered, “is halfway.”
“Oh,” Tech said softly, eyes wide behind his goggles. “I see.”
And then—slowly, cautiously, with all the finesse of a man defusing a bomb—he leaned forward and kissed you.
Echo let out a low whistle. Wrecker whooped. Omega cheered.
Hunter smirked to himself. “About time.”
When you pulled back, Tech looked dazed. Awestruck.
You grinned and nudged his shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Tech adjusted his goggles. “I must say… I found it remarkably agreeable.”
“You’re so weird,” you whispered, grinning.
He smiled back. “Yes. But apparently, I am your kind of weird.”
⸻
The base had fallen into chaos. The sharp beeping of alarms echoed through the corridors, sending waves of tension throughout the facility. It was a rare moment of vulnerability for the Republic, and the last thing anyone had expected was Cad Bane, the notorious bounty hunter, to escape from his containment cell.
The guard stationed at his cell had been lax, and the mistake had proven costly. The high-alert klaxon sounded through the base as soon as Bane's cell had been breached, and every clone in the vicinity had scrambled to act. The corridors buzzed with the hurried footsteps of soldiers moving to secure the area, but the fugitive had already disappeared into the shadows.
Fox had been among the first to respond, his focus sharp as ever. His instincts were honed for situations like this—situation after situation where quick thinking was required. He'd immediately ordered a lockdown, sending squads to lock down the base and search every inch of the facility, but Bane had always been a step ahead.
Thorn, ever the stoic and capable commander, had taken charge of the search team. He was methodical, ensuring every room, every vent, every corner of the base was scoured. His calm, commanding presence calmed the other clones as they executed their assignments, and the search continued with the precision only a seasoned commander could bring.
As for you, you were, as usual, observing from the sidelines. The office had cleared out, with most of the staff focused on the lockdown. It wasn't often the facility was on such high alert, and you'd been relegated to helping with the more menial tasks. Even so, you couldn't help but be drawn into the chaos.
Through the halls, you had heard Fox's voice, barking orders into his comm as he led the charge to track Bane's escape route. It was the kind of mission Fox thrived in—the kind that required focus and relentless determination. But as the hours ticked on, you could tell he was growing more frustrated. Bane was slipping through their fingers.
It wasn't until the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the base, that Fox returned. His boots clicked sharply against the floor, his jaw set, his face as hard as stone. He was visibly irritated, his focus laser-sharp, but the frustration was palpable. He had always been able to handle these types of situations, but Bane was something else—slippery, cunning, and relentless.
"You should've seen the way he slipped past us," Fox muttered to Thorn as he strode into the command center, his eyes never leaving the glowing screens in front of him. "He's too good. We're gonna have to rework our entire strategy if we're going to catch him."
Thorn didn't reply immediately, though you could tell he shared the same frustration. "He's still here. We'll find him. No one's getting out of this base."
Fox glanced at him sharply, his eyes betraying a rare vulnerability. "That's not the problem," he said, the words more clipped than usual. "The problem is he's playing us. I'll need to stay focused, Thorn. This won't be over until he's back in his cell."
The tension in the air thickened, the base still on high alert. The clones moved efficiently, conducting their sweep of the area, but Fox's mind was elsewhere. The escape had rattled him in a way that wasn't typical. Maybe it was because Bane had outsmarted them—or maybe because he had already begun thinking of what could come next. Whatever it was, Fox wasn't about to let it distract him from the task at hand.
As the day wore on, the base remained under lockdown, but you knew Fox would need a break. That night, you had something to offer him that he didn't expect.
***
The stage at 79's was dimly lit, the familiar hum of the bar filling the space. The crowd had gathered, and you could feel the pulse of anticipation in the air as you stepped onto the stage. The drinks were flowing, the conversations were louder than usual, and the usual mix of soldiers and off-duty personnel filled the room. But tonight, you weren't just going to be a face in the crowd. You were going to perform, as you always did—letting the music take over and letting the world around you fade.
When you took the stage, the room quieted, and the eyes of those in the bar turned toward you. A guitar hung around your neck, your fingers brushing over the strings as you tuned it just before you began. It was almost like you could feel the weight of Fox's gaze on you, even though you didn't look for him.
You'd spotted him earlier when you entered, standing near the back of the room. His usual stoic presence made him blend into the shadows, but there was no mistaking him. Commander Fox had made his way to 79's, a rare moment of him stepping outside of his usual duties, and you knew exactly why he was there.
He was here to watch you.
You started your set, letting the rhythm of the music flow through you. The crowd was hooked, as they always were, but tonight, there was something different. As the song progressed, you caught his eye—he wasn't just watching anymore. His gaze had softened, and for a moment, he wasn't the hardened commander. He was just Fox—someone who had chosen to be here, to be with you, in this space.
After the final note rang out, the crowd applauded, and you stepped down from the stage. Fox was already at the bar, a drink in hand, though he hadn't touched it. His eyes tracked you as you made your way over, a brief nod to acknowledge his presence before he looked at you directly.
"That was..." Fox began, his voice low, yet genuine. He searched for the right words, his usual confidence slipping as he softened. "I didn't expect that."
You grinned, your heart racing. "What? That I could hold a tune? You doubt me, Fox?"
His lips twitched in what almost resembled a smile. "I didn't doubt you." His eyes lingered on you, a shift in his expression. "You're more than I imagined."
It was the quiet admission you hadn't expected, but it was everything you needed to hear. Fox had always been careful with his words, but tonight, the mask had slipped, just enough to see something raw underneath.
You stepped closer to him, the moment charged with a tension neither of you could ignore. The crowd's noise faded into the background as you stood before him, the space between you almost electrified.
Without thinking, you reached up, fingers brushing lightly against his jaw. He didn't pull away; instead, his eyes darkened, and his hand rested gently on your waist, a silent invitation.
And then, with no more words needed, you kissed him—slow, tentative at first, but deepening as the weight of everything between you came rushing to the surface. Fox's hand moved to your back, pulling you closer, his kiss almost desperate, as though he were trying to make up for lost time. When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless.
"Fox..." you whispered, your voice soft, yet full of meaning.
"I've always wanted to say this," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I don't know when it happened... but I care about you. More than I should."
You couldn't stop the smile that tugged at your lips. "I care about you too, Fox."
And in that moment, surrounded by the music and the chaos of 79's, nothing else mattered. Not the war, not the Republic, not the danger that always loomed just outside the door. All that mattered was the person standing in front of you—the person who had finally let down their walls and confessed the truth.
The escape had been contained, but you knew this moment—this feeling—wouldn't escape either.
The lights of Coruscant buzzed in their never-ending hum, a sharp contrast to the stillness that surrounded you as you made your way through the narrow halls of the Coruscant Guard's administrative building. The click of your boots echoed off the walls, and the air was thick with the usual tension.
As you passed by the cubicles, you could feel the weight of eyes on you—Trina's, mostly. She was at her desk, pretending to focus on a datapad but failing to hide the sharp, cutting glance she shot your way. You had no idea what her deal was, but it was like every move you made was another opportunity for her to find fault.
Kess, the other assistant, had been trying to remain neutral—sometimes siding with Trina, sometimes siding with you. But today, it was clear where she stood. She gave you a little shrug, an apologetic look, and then quickly turned her attention to Trina.
"I don't get it, Kess. Why do you always side with her?" Trina hissed, loud enough for you to hear, but not quite loud enough to be overtly disrespectful.
Kess tried to defuse the situation with a laugh, but it was hollow. "I just think we should all get along, that's all."
"Oh, please," Trina scoffed. "I think we all know whose side you're really on."
You rolled your eyes and turned to leave, not wanting to engage in their petty rivalry any longer. But then, the doors slid open to reveal Commander Fox standing in the hallway, his usual stoic demeanor unwavering as he crossed his arms over his chest.
"You're needed," Fox said simply, his voice low, betraying no hint of emotion.
You followed him into the briefing room, where the walls were covered in reports and intelligence updates. There was a strange energy in the air today, one you couldn't quite put your finger on. Fox stood by a table littered with datapads, his face hardening as he looked at one of the reports.
"Everything okay, Fox?" you asked casually, leaning against the table.
He didn't look at you, but his voice was thick with something you couldn't quite read. "It's nothing."
"You sure?" you pressed, your gaze narrowing.
Fox turned to face you, his eyes briefly meeting yours before he glanced away, his jaw tight. "You mentioned something earlier. About being nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did you mean by that?"
For a split second, his stoic mask cracked, the faintest trace of concern flitting across his face before he locked it down again. But it didn't go unnoticed by you.
You hesitated. The mention of Aurra Sing, the bounty hunter, still lingered in your mind. You'd barely escaped her grasp, but her motives were still unclear. You'd been too shaken to process it at the time, but now the gravity of the situation was settling in.
"I—" You swallowed hard. "It's nothing, Fox. Just a run-in with a bounty hunter. Aurra Sing"
His face hardened at the mention of her.
"I'm not sure why she's after me, but... she was too close. I didn't think I'd make it out of there last night." You shrugged, trying to brush off the gravity of it all, but you could see the concern building behind his eyes. "I wasn't exactly planning on being in the line of fire, if you catch my drift."
Fox's posture didn't shift, but you could sense the tension in his stance. "You should have told me," he said, his voice betraying more emotion than usual.
You snorted. "I didn't think it would be a big deal, Fox. It's just a bounty hunter."
His gaze softened for just a moment, but it quickly turned back to its usual stoic intensity. "You're not just some bystander. You're important. Don't make light of things like this again. Understood?"
You nodded, meeting his gaze for a moment. "Understood."
The conversation was cut short as the door to the briefing room slammed open, and Trina entered, her eyes flashing with that usual arrogance. "Did I hear something about a bounty hunter?" she sneered, her gaze landing on you with more than a touch of disdain. "What, are you some kind of target now? Seems like trouble follows you everywhere."
Kess lingered in the doorway, but she was much quieter today, hanging back like she wasn't sure where her loyalties lay. It was like she was trying to gauge the room before making her move.
Fox's eyes flashed with annoyance, but his voice remained calm, controlled. "Trina, that's enough."
Trina narrowed her eyes at him. "You can't seriously be buying into her little story, can you? A galactic legend hunting her down? I don't know about you, but it sounds like someone's fishing for sympathy."
Fox turned his gaze back to you for a moment, and then back to Trina. "You'll need to mind your tone, Trina. This is a serious matter."
Trina huffed, clearly not impressed, but she didn't say anything else. She gave you a final look of contempt before storming out of the room, leaving the air heavy with her disdain.
Kess shifted uncomfortably in the doorway, watching the exchange. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her voice quiet, almost unsure.
Fox glanced at you, then back at Kess. "For now. But we'll be keeping a close eye on things. Don't take your safety lightly, not with Aurra Sing around." He paused before adding, "If anything else happens, you come to me."
You nodded, feeling the weight of his words, but also the strange comfort of having someone like Fox looking out for you—even if it wasn't in the way you had expected.
As you walked back to your desk, the tension in the office hadn't died down. Trina and Kess were still at each other's throats, but something had changed in the dynamic. And somewhere in the background, you couldn't shake the feeling that Aurra Sing's shadow still loomed over you, and it was only a matter of time before she made her next move.
But for now, you had to survive the office politics—and the bounty hunter.
_ _ _
The hum of Coruscant's busy atmosphere felt oddly quiet as you returned to the office. It was a stark contrast to the calm, serene days you'd spent on Naboo. Your cousin's hospitality had been a much-needed reprieve, and the peaceful landscapes of Naboo had offered the perfect escape from the usual chaos. You couldn't help but feel recharged, the stress of office politics and bounty hunters temporarily forgotten.
You'd left without telling anyone, of course. The usual message to Fox had been a casual *"By the way, I'm off-world, visiting my cousin. I'll be back around this time."* No leave request, no formalities. It was just how you operated. And now, here you were—back, and very much prepared to deal with the aftermath of your absence.
As you entered the office, the first thing you noticed was the silence. It hung thick in the air, broken only by the soft click of your boots against the floor. You spotted Trina immediately, her eyes narrowing as she glanced up at you, her arms crossed.
"Oh, look who finally graces us with her presence," Trina sneered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she threw a pile of reports onto your desk. "What, were you living the good life on Naboo while the rest of us were stuck here, keeping things running?"
You didn't even flinch at her attitude. Instead, you casually dropped your bag on the desk and powered up your datapad, skimming through messages as though her words weren't even worth your attention.
Kess, standing by her desk, raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, not wanting to escalate things further. She was always caught between trying to keep the peace and avoiding the conflict that always seemed to bubble up around Trina.
But then the door slid open, and in walked Thorn, Thire, and Hound—three of the most notorious clones for adding fuel to the office drama. Thorn, in particular, was known for his stoic demeanor, but he was more than willing to throw in a comment or two, just to watch the chaos unfold.
Thorn leaned against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow, his voice as dry as ever. "Well, well, look who's back from her little getaway," he said, his eyes scanning the room. "I'm sure Naboo was *just* what the doctor ordered."
Hound, standing near the back of the room, smirked and crossed his arms. "Yeah, must've been real rough out there. Too bad the rest of us couldn't get the same luxury treatment."
Thire chuckled, shooting you a teasing glance. "I hope you at least got some time to relax. Sounds like a vacation we could all use."
You barely looked up as you replied, still focused on your datapad. "Oh, it was great. Thanks for asking."
Trina, unable to resist taking another shot, leaned in, her voice sharp. "Must've been nice to disappear for a week. Some of us have responsibilities around here, you know."
You let out a quiet sigh, rolling your eyes. "I'm sure you've been holding down the fort, Trina," you said with exaggerated sweetness, giving her a quick, condescending smile.
Thorn, clearly enjoying the tension, glanced at the clones before turning back to you with a small smirk. "I think she's just jealous she didn't get a taste of the *relaxing* life you got to have," he teased, his tone completely deadpan.
But there was a shift in his expression, a flicker of something more serious when he glanced at Fox, who had silently entered the room and was now standing near the doorway. Thorn knew better than to press too far. The clones may have loved watching office drama, but they also knew where the line was—and that line was Commander Fox.
Fox gave no outward sign of having heard the comments, but there was something in the air that shifted the mood. Thorn, always in control of his own stoic composure, simply raised an eyebrow and backed off, sensing Fox's presence. He gave one last glance in your direction before turning to the rest of the room.
"We'll leave you to it, then," Thorn said, his tone neutral as he motioned to the clones. "But next time you decide to vanish for a while, let us know, yeah?"
The clones, now looking cautiously at Fox, quickly filtered out of the room, but not without throwing a few more playful glances your way. They were clearly amused by the little spectacle they'd just witnessed. Thorn, despite his reserved nature, couldn't resist a little chaos, and watching Trina's sour face as you returned was too good a moment to miss.
Once the clones had left, the tension in the room became almost palpable. Trina's smug smile faded as she shot you another look. "Must be nice to have that much freedom," she said, but her voice had lost a little of its bite. The reality was, she was on the defensive now, unsure of how to react to the clones' comments.
Kess took a step back from the situation, unsure of where to align herself today. She shifted from one foot to the other, glancing between Trina and you, caught in the middle of their rivalry.
You leaned back in your chair, eyes still locked on your datapad, completely unfazed by the tension. "It is nice," you said, the words casual, but there was an edge to your tone. "But if you need anything, you know where to find me."
Trina opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off by Fox's voice, now much more authoritative. "That's enough, Trina," he said, his tone calm but firm. "I've had enough of the games today. Everyone, focus on the tasks at hand."
Trina huffed, muttering under her breath before turning back to her desk, clearly not done but not willing to escalate things further. Kess, sensing the shift, returned to her own work, though she kept glancing at you and the ongoing office drama with a hint of curiosity.
Fox looked at you for a moment, his gaze steady, as if weighing something in the air between you. But he said nothing more, and you knew better than to press him.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of passive-aggressive glances, subtle jabs, and quiet interactions. But as the hours ticked by, you felt a sense of amusement, even pride, that the office still couldn't figure you out—despite the clones' attempts to stir the pot, the undercurrent of rivalry, and the ever-present drama.
As long as you had your freedom, nothing could keep you down. Not even the endless office politics.
Hi! Could I request a Crosshair x Reader? The reader was a medic in the GAR and would occasionally be called to treat the Bad Batch and loved to over-the-top flirt with Crosshair. After Order 66, the reader treats him after the fall of Kamino, and is reunited again on Tantiss?
Thank you for the request!
Because I’m evil I made this really sad and tragic - hope you enjoy!
⸻
Warnings: Injury, death, angst
When you first met Crosshair, he was bleeding all over your medbay floor.
Not dramatically, of course. That wasn’t his style. He’d taken a blaster graze to the ribs, shrugged it off, and sat on the edge of your cot like he couldn’t care less if he passed out.
“You should’ve come in hours ago,” you said, kneeling to check the wound. “This is going to scar.”
Crosshair’s eyes barely flicked toward you. “Scars don’t matter.”
You raised a brow. “To you, maybe. I, on the other hand, take pride in my handiwork.”
His lip curled in the barest ghost of amusement. You took it as encouragement.
You started showing up whenever they did. Crosshair got injured just enough to give you an excuse to flirt outrageously. You called him things like “sniper sweetheart,” “sharp shot,” and once, when you were feeling particularly bold, “cross and handsome.”
He rolled his eyes, glared, told you to shut up more times than you could count—but he never really pushed you away.
You weren’t blind. You saw the way his gaze lingered when you turned to walk away. The way he always sat a little too still when you touched him—like he was trying not to feel something.
⸻
You pressed the gauze a little firmer than necessary against Crosshair’s side.
“Careful,” he grunted.
You smirked, dabbing the bacta. “Sorry, sniper. Didn’t realize your pain tolerance was that low.”
Crosshair didn’t dignify that with a response. Just narrowed his eyes at you and clenched his jaw.
You loved getting under his skin. The other clones were easy to treat. Grateful. Polite. But Crosshair? He glared like you’d personally insulted his rifle every time you patched him up.
It made him interesting.
“You know,” you added, taping down the final dressing with a wink, “if you ever want me to kiss it better, just say the word.”
Crosshair exhaled sharply through his nose—something between irritation and disbelief.
“You ever shut up?”
You leaned in close, your voice dropping to a purr. “Not for you.”
And then you walked off, grinning to yourself, because Crosshair might’ve looked annoyed, but you caught it—the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.
You never expected anything from it. It was just a game. A slow, stupid, hopeful kind of game.
And then the war ended.
⸻
The transition from the Republic to the Empire didn’t faze you at first.
Same job. Same uniform. New symbol on your chest.
You weren’t naïve, just tired. The war had dragged on for years. Maybe peace, even under control, wasn’t the worst thing.
Besides, you were just a medic. You weren’t in charge of policies or invasions. You fixed what was broken. Saved who you could. And in your mind, the war was finally over.
You didn’t question the new rules. Not then. Not when Crosshair disappeared. Not even when Kamino began to feel… emptier.
When the call came in that Crosshair had returned—injured during the fall of Kamino—you were the one they requested. Of course you were.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. That you were just a medic, doing your job. Nothing more.
But when you saw him again, lying on that cold table, soaked in sea water and rage, something shifted.
“You’re quiet,” you said as you cleaned blood from his temple.
He didn’t answer.
“You could say something. Like ‘Hi, I missed you,’ or even just a classy grunt.”
Crosshair stared at the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I thought you were dead,” you admitted softly, your voice losing the humor. “And then I thought… maybe that would’ve been easier.”
His gaze finally cut to yours—sharp and cold. “Didn’t stop you from joining them.”
You stiffened.
“I didn’t know what was happening, Cross,” you said. “None of us did. I didn’t even see the Jedi fall. I was in a medtent treating troopers shot by their own.”
He said nothing.
“I stayed. I helped. I didn’t know you’d… chosen to stay too. Not like this.”
His voice was quiet, bitter. “So you’re leaving again?”
“I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. They only brought me in to stabilize you.”
He scoffed. “Figures. You’re just like the rest.”
That sentence struck you harder than any wound you’d treated.
Your hand froze on his bandage. Your throat tightened.
You stepped back.
“You think I didn’t care?” you said, barely more than a whisper. “I flirted with you for years, you emotionally constipated bastard. You could’ve said something. You could’ve stayed.”
He didn’t answer. He just looked away.
And this time, you were the one to leave.
⸻
The Imperial Research Facility on Tantiss was hell in sterile form.
You hated it the moment you arrived. The black walls. The quiet whispers. The clones in cages. The scientists with dead eyes.
But you told yourself you had no choice. You’d seen too much to be let go. You’d signed too many lines, accepted too many transfers.
And if you were going to be stuck in this nightmare, you might as well try to help the ones left inside it.
So you stitched up soldiers with no names. You treated mutations the Empire refused to acknowledge. You whispered comforts to dying experiments when no one else would.
And then one day—you saw him again.
You found him slumped against a wall, one arm dragging uselessly, his uniform half-burned.
“Crosshair.”
He blinked blearily. When he saw your face, he flinched like you’d hit him.
“Oh,” he said. “Of course. You.”
“I should’ve guessed you’d find a way to almost die again.”
You knelt beside him, voice low. “Let me help you.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you with a raw, wounded anger that made your stomach twist.
“You knew I was here,” you said. “Didn’t you?”
“I heard rumors,” he rasped. “Didn’t believe it. Figured if you were here, you’d have visited. Unless that was too much effort.”
You stared at him. “You think I wanted this?”
“You chose this,” he said coldly. “You always do.”
You wanted to scream. To shake him. To make him see what this place had done to you. What the Empire really was. But Crosshair didn’t want sympathy. He wanted someone to hate.
And you were easy to hate.
Even if the way his fingers brushed yours when you patched his shoulder said otherwise.
Even if you still smelled like the cheap soap he used to mock, and he still remembered exactly how you smiled when you wrapped his wounds.
Even if he was still in love with you—and still convinced that meant nothing.
⸻
Tantiss was built to be soulless—white halls, dead lights, silence where screams should’ve been. You learned how to survive here by becoming invisible.
But now you were doing something dangerous. Stupid, even.
You were trusting again.
Crosshair hadn’t spoken much after that first time you treated him—just short questions, sarcastic comments, clipped observations. But he stopped flinching when you approached. Stopped spitting daggers every time your fingers brushed his skin.
And sometimes, on the rare nights when the lights dimmed and the cameras looked the other way, he’d ask things.
“Did you know what they were doing here?”
“Do you regret staying?”
“Why did you help me?”
You answered every question honestly, because lies were for people who didn’t already carry each other’s ghosts.
And then came her—a ghost you didn’t expect.
Omega.
They brought her in bruised, shackled, but defiant. You knew who she was—of course you did. You knew what she meant to Crosshair even if he’d never say it.
The first time you saw her, you crouched beside her cot and said:
“Name’s [Y/N]. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Omega didn’t trust you, not at first. But you earned it, one moment at a time.
You fixed her shoulder. Snuck her extra food. Sat with her at night when the lights made her cry.
Crosshair was the one who really got her to open up.
She’d whisper across the room in the dark.
“You look grumpy, but you’re not really.”
Crosshair muttered something like “Keep telling yourself that.”
She smiled.
You’d watch them from the corner of the lab. A tired soldier and a fierce little kid, clinging to the only family they had left.
You started planning.
You spent weeks preparing—disabling door locks, stealing access codes, memorizing shift schedules. You taught Omega how to sneak. You warned Crosshair how many guards you couldn’t distract.
The night came fast.
Crosshair didn’t ask questions—he moved like a man with nothing to lose. Omega stuck to his side like a shadow. You guided them through hallways, down lifts, past sleeping monsters in bacta tanks.
You reached the final corridor, the one that led to the hangar.
That’s when he stopped.
“Where’s your gear?” Crosshair asked. “We don’t have time to backtrack.”
You shook your head. “I’m not going.”
He stared at you like you’d just said the sky was falling.
“What the hell do you mean, you’re not going?”
“I’m on every manifest. Every shift schedule. Every system. I don’t make it out. Not without putting you both at risk.”
Omega grabbed your hand. “But we can’t just leave you!”
You smiled—God, it hurt to smile. “You have to. You’re the only ones who still have a shot.”
Crosshair stepped forward, chest heaving. “You’re out of your mind.”
“Maybe,” you said softly, “but I’m making the call.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just stared. Like he wanted to remember everything about you—your face, your scent, your voice when you weren’t bleeding or angry.
And then, quietly:
“I should’ve said something. Before. Kamino. You deserved more than—”
“I knew,” you said. “I always knew.”
You kissed him. Once. Brief. Like a secret passed between souls.
“Get her out,” you whispered.
And then you ran back toward the alarms.
⸻
The cuffs chafed against your wrists, biting into raw skin. The interrogation room was colder than usual—designed to break people long before the scalpel touched skin.
You weren’t broken.
Not yet.
Dr. Royce Hemlock entered like he always did: calm, unbothered, surgical. He closed the door behind him with a quiet hiss. No guards. He didn’t need them.
He looked at you like a specimen already tagged for dissection.
“Dr. [Y/L/N],” he said softly, hands clasped behind his back. “You’ve been busy.”
You didn’t speak.
He circled you, like a predator measuring bone width and muscle density.
“You falsified clearance reports. Tampered with door access logs. Administered unauthorized sedation doses. Facilitated the escape of two highly valuable assets. All while wearing the Empire’s crest on your coat.”
You tilted your chin up. “You forgot ‘ate the last slice of cake in the mess.’”
Hemlock’s smile was thin, sterile.
“I misjudged you,” he said. “I assumed your compliance stemmed from belief. But it seems it was convenience.”
“It was survival,” you corrected. “Until I realized survival meant becoming the monster.”
He stopped behind you, his voice like ice against your neck.
“Do you know what fascinates me, Doctor?” he asked. “Loyalty. The anatomy of it. How some will kill for it. Die for it. And how others—like you—will throw it away for a defective clone and a girl with a soft voice and wild eyes.”
Your voice didn’t shake.
“They had more humanity than anyone in this facility.”
Hemlock’s footsteps were deliberate as he moved back in front of you. He looked down like you were an experiment that had failed on the table.
“Your medical clearance is revoked. Your name will be stripped from the archives. You will die here, and no one will remember you.”
You met his gaze. “Then you’ll never know how I did it.”
That made his mouth twitch. Just slightly.
“You think you’re clever,” he said. “But you’re just like all the rest. Sentimental. Weak. Replaceable.”
You leaned forward, blood on your lip, defiance burning in your chest.
“No,” you said. “I’m unforgettable.”
Hemlock pressed the execution order into the datapad.
“Take her to Sector E,” he told the guard at the door. “Immediate termination.”
As the guards hauled you to your feet, you locked eyes with Hemlock one last time.
“You’ll lose,” you said. “Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someone will bring this place to the ground.”
He tilted his head, amused.
“And who will that be? The sniper who tried to kill his brothers? The child?”
You smiled through bloodied teeth.
“They’re more than you’ll ever be.”
⸻
They didn’t let you say goodbye.
They didn’t let you scream.
But you didn’t beg.
You thought of Crosshair. Of Omega. Of the escape you made possible.
And you went quietly.
Because monsters didn’t get the satisfaction of your fear.
⸻
Later, through intercepted comms, Crosshair would hear the clinical report:
“Subject [Y/N] – execution carried out. Cause of death: biological termination. Body transferred to incineration chamber.”
He replayed that sentence ten times before he crushed the headset in his hand.
Hunter didn’t say anything.
Wrecker just placed a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder.
And Crosshair—who hadn’t prayed in his life—looked out at the stars, and wished he believed in something that could carry your soul home.
Omg! I saw you take requests! I love your work especially bad batch! I was thinking a Hunter x Fem!Reader where the reader is new to the ship, like medic or maybe even a soldier? But she uses like perfumes and obviously a different soap and he’s obsessed with trying to figure out what she smells like and with how nice it smells? You’re amazing! :))
Absolutely - sometimes I run out of ideas so love getting request! I hope you like it x
⸻
⸻
The Marauder had always smelled like metal, boot polish, and testosterone. Maybe a little like burnt caf on bad days. It wasn’t bad—it was just what Hunter was used to. Predictable. Familiar.
Until you showed up.
Fresh off an assignment with a battalion on Christophis, you were the newest addition to Clone Force 99—medic, technically, but you could hold your own in a fight too. The regs had spoken highly of your skills. That’s all Hunter needed to approve the transfer.
What he hadn’t anticipated was you.
Not your skills, not your sharp tongue or how fast you could stitch a man back together mid-firefight.
No, what Hunter hadn’t anticipated—what was currently driving him up the kriffing wall—was how good you smelled.
⸻
It started on the first day.
You’d walked up the ramp in your gear, throwing a satchel over your shoulder, hair pulled back, confidence in your step. The moment you passed him, it hit Hunter like a punch to the senses.
Sweet. Warm. Not too strong. Not floral, not fruity. Something clean. Something… familiar but elusive. He couldn’t place it.
His head had snapped toward you like a damn hound on instinct.
You hadn’t noticed—too busy joking with Tech about the medbay setup.
Hunter had clenched his jaw and focused. Or tried to. You walked past him again and—there it was. A whisper of something rich and soft. Stars, what was that?
⸻
The next few days were worse.
Every time you were near, his senses lit up like a battle alert. The scent of your soap after a shower. The subtle perfume that lingered on your neck and collarbone when you leaned over the holotable. Even the way your gear smelled—fresh, clean, nothing like the usual musty armor worn too long.
Hunter could track someone through a jungle with a five-day head start, but your scent was all he could think about, and you were right there—constantly in his space, brushing shoulders, handing him bandages, laughing at something Wrecker said.
He was losing it.
⸻
He caught you in the galley one night, the ship quiet, everyone else asleep.
You were perched on the counter in sleepwear and a hoodie, cradling a cup of caf like it held the secrets of the galaxy. The scent hit him again—stronger this time. No armor, no barrier. Just you, soft and warm and godsdamn intoxicating.
“You okay?” you asked, eyes flicking up to meet his.
Hunter blinked. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”
You tilted your head. “Too much stimcaf or just the usual war trauma?”
He smirked. “Bit of both.”
You chuckled, then held out the cup. “Want some?”
He stepped forward—and nearly flinched when the scent hit him again. His jaw tightened.
“You good?” you asked, raising a brow.
“I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What do you wear?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, ears flushing. “I mean, you smell… different. Not in a bad way! Just… I can’t place it.”
You stared at him for a beat—then burst into laughter. “Is that what’s been bothering you?”
He scowled, only mildly embarrassed. “It’s been driving me nuts. I can’t figure it out.”
You hopped off the counter, still laughing, and came to stand close. Too close. He tensed when you leaned in just a little, tilting your head.
“It’s amber and sandalwood. Little bit of vanilla. And my soap’s just some fancy one I stole from an officer’s shower kit. Want me to make you a batch?”
Hunter’s brain short-circuited.
The scent was right there—intimate, surrounding him, and your voice was low, teasing.
“I—uh…” he stammered, then pulled back just slightly. “No. No, I think I’ll go insane if everything smells like you.”
You smiled slowly, eyes dark with amusement. “So… it’s a problem?”
He gave you a flat look. “Yes.”
You leaned in again, grinning. “Guess you’ll just have to get used to it, Sarge.”
Hunter’s voice was gravel. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
⸻
⸻
The ramp of the Marauder hissed as it lowered, groaning under the weight of exhausted boots and heavier egos. Smoke clung to armor plates and robes alike, the remnants of their latest skirmish still staining their clothes and lungs. But they were alive, in one piece, and Wrecker had already claimed that meant it was time for a snack.
“I told you,” Wrecker declared, stomping down the ramp with a grin that was a little too smug for someone who’d nearly face-planted during the evac, “nothing brings people closer than a near-death experience! Team bonding, baby.”
“Tell that to the squad of clankers you flattened like pancakes,” Tech muttered, adjusting his goggles. “They didn’t seem especially enthusiastic about our cohesion.”
Behind them, Echo trudged down with his helmet tucked under one arm, glancing behind him for you. His expression softened the moment his eyes met yours. You were brushing ash off your tunic and tucking your lightsaber back into your belt, brow furrowed in focus as always—but you felt his gaze and looked up with the smallest smile.
“Nice work back there,” Echo said, and though his voice was soft, it cut through the banter around you. “You saved my shebs. Again.”
You shrugged, trying to hide the way your heart jumped at the way he looked at you—like you were the whole kriffing galaxy. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
“I already have,” he said, voice low, his smile a little crooked. You bumped shoulders with him, rolling your eyes with a grin that gave you away.
Hunter, catching the exchange from the edge of the ramp, raised a brow. “You two always this obvious?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” Wrecker chimed in, loud enough to turn heads. “She’s totally his girlfriend.”
You froze mid-step. Echo’s expression twitched like his brain had blue-screened for a second.
“I—what—Wrecker!” he hissed, ears practically glowing red.
Wrecker threw up his hands, unbothered. “What? Everyone sees it! I mean, c’mon! They were making goo-goo eyes while taking down that tank together. That’s not ‘standard Jedi–clone operational procedure,’ that’s ‘save-the-galaxy-together’ couple stuff!”
Crosshair snorted from where he leaned against the ship. “You’re all idiots,” he said flatly. “That’s unrealistic. She’s not just a Jedi—she’s Old Republic trained. The whole code is sacred thing, remember?”
You gave Crosshair a look and stepped forward with arms crossed, voice cool and amused. “So you’re saying I can’t be both a warrior and a woman with depth?”
Crosshair stared at you for a moment, blinked once, and turned away. “Didn’t say that.”
Echo cleared his throat and stepped between you and the others, half-shielding you like instinct. “Can we not discuss Jedi doctrine like we’re gossiping in the barracks?”
“Oh, now he’s shy,” Tech said, tilting his head.
Wrecker grinned at you. “She didn’t say no, though.”
“Wrecker—” Echo growled, but you touched his arm, and he stopped short.
You looked up at him, just for a second. “Let them talk. We know what this is.”
Echo studied you—carefully, gently—like he was afraid you’d vanish if he blinked too fast. Then he nodded, just once. “Yeah. We do.”
The team fell into a comfortable rhythm after that, still teasing, still tossing back jabs and laughs, but it all faded a little in your periphery as Echo walked beside you. And maybe the Jedi code was sacred. Maybe there were rules. But as the sun dipped low over the landing pad and he smiled down at you like you were the one thing anchoring him to this chaotic galaxy, you weren’t thinking about rules.
You were thinking: Maybe we can survive this. Together.
⸻
The stars outside the viewport blinked like distant memories. The Marauder hummed with its usual low thrum, the rest of the squad either asleep or pretending to be. It was one of those rare, fragile moments—when the galaxy felt like it was holding its breath, just long enough for two people to realize they weren’t alone in it.
Echo sat on one of the benches in the common room, armor stripped down to the basics, a cup of something warm in his hand. You stepped in barefoot, robes loose and hair still damp from a rushed rinse, like you were shedding the battlefield piece by piece.
He looked up. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
You shook your head, padding over to sit beside him. The silence between you was companionable, soft. You both knew how loud your thoughts got at night.
After a while, you pulled something from the inner pocket of your robes—a small, weathered talisman on a leather cord. Gold and deep bronze etched with faint runes, worn smooth by time and touch. Echo tilted his head.
“What’s that?”
You held it between your fingers for a second, then placed it gently in his hands.
“It’s… old. Really old,” you said. “It was given to me when I became a Padawan. Back long before the war, before the Jedi and the old Order became a memory. My master said it would keep me anchored. It’s seen every part of my life since—battlefields, meditations, exile, heartbreak, my Millenia long carbon freeze prisonment.”
Echo turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the ancient symbols. “Why are you giving it to me?”
“Because I don’t think I need to be anchored anymore,” you said, voice quiet but sure. “Not in the past, anyway. You remind me that I’m still here. That I still get to be here. And if anyone should carry a piece of where I came from into the future… it’s you.”
His fingers stilled. He looked at you like you were some impossible thing—like someone who should’ve been gone centuries ago, yet was sitting beside him, breathing the same air, bleeding in the same war.
“I don’t know what to say,” he murmured.
You smiled softly. “Just don’t lose it.”
Echo slipped the talisman over his head carefully, reverently, and tucked it under his chest plate. When he looked back at you, there was something heavy in his eyes—something like wonder, something like love.
“You always talk like you’re a ghost,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re flesh and blood, and you’re here. With us. With me. You don’t have to drift anymore.”
Your heart caught. You reached up and brushed your fingertips against his jaw, and he leaned into it without hesitation.
“I don’t feel like a ghost when I’m with you,” you whispered. “I feel… alive.”
Echo leaned in, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm. “Then let’s keep it that way.”
And in the stillness of the Marauder, with the stars watching in silence, it felt like maybe—just maybe—the galaxy wasn’t all war and death and shadows.
It could be this, too.
It could be you and him.
⸻
Part 1
Warnings: injuries, suggestive content,l
⸻
The jungle was thick with steam and smoke, the scent of burning metal and charred flesh choking the air. Delta Squad’s evac had been shot down. You were the only survivor from your recon team. Boss had taken command of the op—naturally.
“Stick close,” he ordered, his voice rasping through the modulator, sharp like durasteel dragged across stone.
You rolled your eyes, already moving. “I didn’t survive a crashing gunship to get babysat by a buckethead.”
He turned just enough to look at you, that T-shaped visor catching the fading light. “I don’t babysit. I lead.”
“And I slice,” you shot back, shouldering your pack. “Let me do my job.”
“We already have a slicer” he respond, before he turned forward again. But you could feel him watching you—tracking your movements with that eerie commando focus. It had been two days of this now: evading patrols, patching up your leg, sleeping back-to-back under foliage so thick you couldn’t see the stars.
Tonight, it rained. Not the cooling kind—this rain was warm, heavy, pressing the jungle into silence. You sat in a hollowed-out tree, tuning your equipment while Boss kept watch. When he finally returned to your makeshift camp, you didn’t look up.
“How bad’s your leg?”
“Fine.”
“You’re limping harder than yesterday.”
“You’re observant. I’m touched.”
“Stop being stubborn,” he muttered, kneeling in front of you. His gauntlet brushed your knee as he examined the torn fabric and swelling underneath. “You need rest.”
“You need to stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.
Silence stretched. You met his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor. Something heavy passed between you. Maybe it was the danger. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the way he’d hauled you out of that wreckage, swearing he’d get you home.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice lower. “You’re not one of us.”
“No. I’m not. But I’m here now.” You leaned closer, your voice daring. “And so are you.”
His breath caught, almost imperceptible beneath the rain. Then—he reached up and disengaged the seal on his helmet. The hiss of depressurization was drowned out by your heartbeat.
And when he took it off, you saw him—finally. Tanned skin streaked with grime and blood. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on yours like they were burning through you.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t. You leaned in.
He kissed you hard—like everything he’d been holding back had snapped. His gloves were rough on your skin, tugging you closer, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you’d disappear. You curled your fingers into the collar of his armor and pulled until you could feel the heat of his body beneath the plastoid.
“I’ve got one night,” he murmured against your throat. “One night before I’m a soldier again.”
“Then make it count,” you whispered.
And he did.
⸻
The war would keep going. The Republic would keep taking. But in a jungle no one would remember, under a rain no one would care about, Boss let himself be something other than a number—and you let yourself fall for a soldier who wasn’t supposed to love.
⸻
“Only One Target”
Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. Tension, action, and banter-heavy.
⸻
Red lights flashed down the corridors as you rand through the Resolute. Alarms howled like wounded animals. Klaxons screamed warnings that had come too late.
You moved like a shadow, your twin blades igniting in a blur of crimson, slicing through the bulkhead doors as if the metal were paper. The heat of your lightsabers glowed against the durasteel corridor walls, the hum a deadly harmony beside the shriek of chaos.
Asajj Ventress moved beside you with elegant brutality, deflecting blaster fire, her snarling grin twisted with pleasure.
“The bridge is ahead,” she hissed.
“I know.” You moved low, quick. Efficient. No wasted energy.
Unlike Ventress, you weren’t here for blood. You were here for one thing.
Skywalker.
Your boots echoed against the floor as the pair of you tore through the security wing. Clone troopers scrambled to set up a defensive line, but Ventress was already leaping through the air, spinning and slashing with savage glee. You ducked left, deflecting two stun blasts aimed at your side and pressing through the chaos.
Your comm crackled with Dooku’s voice: “Your objective is Skywalker. Eliminate him if possible. Delay him if not.”
Simple. Clean.
But Jedi never made things easy.
A roar of deflected fire and steel clashed ahead—the bridge was sealed tight, but Skywalker was already on the move. You could feel it. That sickening shine in the Force. Hot-headed. Reckless.
Perfect.
Ventress cackled as she carved her way through a unit of troopers. “Skywalker’s mine, little assassin.”
You didn’t bother replying. She was always talking. Always posturing.
But Skywalker—he came for you.
He landed in front of you like a meteor, lightsaber igniting in that garish Jedi blue. His padawan flanked him, smaller but no less lethal.
“Stop right there!” Ahsoka barked.
“You should run, youngling,” you said calmly, blades still humming in your grip. “You’re not my target.”
“Good,” Anakin growled. “Because I’m yours.”
Your blades clashed.
He was every bit as unhinged and unpredictable as the reports had claimed. Each swing was raw power. Unfocused. A battering ram of fury and precision. But you weren’t trained for brute force—you danced. You flowed. And you matched him blow for blow.
Behind you, Ventress laughed, engaging Ahsoka. “Don’t get killed, darling!” she called to you.
You didn’t have time to respond. Skywalker was pressing harder now, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
“Who sent you?” he snarled.
“Ask your Council,” you hissed, pushing his blade aside with a sharp twist and driving a kick into his side. “Maybe they already knew.”
His anger was your shield, your rhythm. You circled him like a predator, redirecting each strike. But he was wearing you down. Sweat beaded on your brow. Your ribs ached from a graze. The hum of the ship told you more clones were closing in.
This wasn’t going to plan.
Suddenly, Ventress snarled. “We’re pulling out!”
“What?” you snapped, narrowly dodging a swing that would’ve taken your shoulder.
“The ship is crawling with clones! We’re surrounded!”
You turned—but it was already too late.
A stun blast hit your back like a hammer, and you crumpled to the floor with a gasp. Your vision sparked, flickering red and white.
Through the haze, you saw Ventress leap into the air, somersaulting toward an escape hatch. “Try not to die, sweetling!” she called before vanishing into the smoke.
Coward.
You tried to rise—only to find yourself staring down the barrel of several blaster rifles. White and blue armor surrounded you.
And in front of them stood a clone captain.
Helmet off. Jaw clenched. Eyes sharp.
He didn’t look at you like a person.
He looked at you like the monster under the bed had crawled into the daylight.
You smirked through the pain.
“Captain,” you rasped, voice dry and tinged with blood. “Nice to finally meet face-to-face.”
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t shoot you either.
⸻
The cell was cold. Not the biting kind of cold, but that artificial kind—clinical, heartless, and designed to make you uncomfortable without leaving bruises.
You sat calmly, arms cuffed to the table in front of you, ankles bound beneath. Bruised. Bleeding. But your chin was high and your mouth curved in something far too close to a smirk.
Across from you stood Anakin Skywalker, pacing like a caged animal.
“Why were you here?” he demanded. Again.
You gave a long, slow blink. “Nice to see you’re up and walking. That kick to the ribs must’ve hurt.”
He stopped pacing, turned on you.
“Who sent you?”
“You already know the answer to that,” you replied sweetly. “But you’re not interested in truth, are you? Only revenge.”
He bristled. You leaned forward, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“You’re predictable, Skywalker. So much fire, so little control. I don’t even need the Force to see through you.”
He slammed his hand down on the table. You didn’t flinch.
“I will get answers out of you.”
You tilted your head, voice dropping like silk.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t play games with Sith.”
“Oh, but I do love when Jedi pretend they don’t have teeth. You came at me like a storm, Skywalker. That was personal. So… who did you lose?”
He stared at you for a long, tense beat.
Then he turned sharply and stormed toward the door.
“Rex!” he barked, voice echoing. The clone captain was already waiting outside.
Anakin didn’t look back. “She’s done talking. Make sure she doesn’t try anything.”
The door hissed shut behind him, leaving you in quiet, satisfied amusement.
⸻
Captain Rex entered the room like a soldier born from the word discipline itself. Helmet off. Blaster at his side.
You watched him with interest. The curve of his jaw. The quiet rage simmering beneath the armor. Fascinating.
“Still scowling,” you murmured, leaning forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you missed me.”
Rex didn’t move.
“I don’t have time for your games.”
“No?” You arched a brow, voice smooth. “I thought I might be growing on you.”
“You’re lucky to still be breathing.”
You chuckled lowly, the sound almost intimate. “So I’ve been told. And yet… here I am. Alive. Tied down. At your mercy.”
Rex narrowed his eyes, but you saw it—the flicker. Just a twitch. Something unreadable passing through him.
“I’m not interested in whatever this is,” he said.
“Are you sure?” Your voice dropped to a velvet hush. “Because you keep coming back.”
Rex stepped forward, setting your stun-cuffed hands more firmly on the table.
“I’m only here because the General told me to keep you contained.”
You leaned in as far as the cuffs would allow. Close enough for him to feel the whisper of your breath against his cheek.
“And here I thought you were starting to enjoy our chats.”
He looked down at you—fierce, unreadable.
Then his voice dropped, cold and quiet.
“I’ve lost too many good men to people like you.”
Your smirk softened. Just a bit.
“I told you already,” you said, quieter now. “I didn’t kill your brothers. Not one.”
“Convenient.”
“True.”
The silence stretched between you like a taut wire. Dangerous. Tense.
“I’m not who you think I am, Captain,” you said finally. “But I won’t pretend I’m innocent.”
He didn’t reply. Just turned, walking toward the door.
You watched him, something unreadable flickering in your gaze.
“You can lock the cell, Rex,” you called after him. “But you’ll be back.”
He paused in the doorway, head tilted.
“Mark my words, Captain… you’ll come back. Even if you don’t know why.”
The door hissed closed behind him.
But you knew.
You always knew.
⸻
Captain Rex hadn’t come back.
Not once.
And it was driving you crazy.
Not because you missed him—no, that would be ridiculous. But there was something about the way he looked at you. That loathing. That fire. That control. You’d tasted the edge of his patience, danced along the blade of his restraint. You wanted to see what would happen if it snapped.
But instead, all you got were cold meals, cold walls, and clones who wouldn’t meet your eye.
Something had changed.
The cruiser was quieter than usual. Too quiet.
You sat in your cell, half-meditating, half-stalking the Force for answers—when the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Then the alarms started.
Again.
You stood.
Outside your cell, down the corridor, came the distinct snarl of sabers cutting metal.
Then the scream of a clone dying.
You felt it before you saw her—Asajj Ventress.
So dramatic.
She moved like smoke—feral and graceful and cruel. Cutting down everything in her path.
“(Y/N), darling,” she sang, dragging her saber across the bulkhead. “Dooku thinks you’ve said too much.”
You arched a brow. “I’ve been locked up for two days.”
She grinned wickedly through the security glass. “He’s not much for trust.”
You stepped back as the wall next to your cell exploded inwards, shrapnel slicing through the air. A second later, the blast door behind Ventress burst open—and Rex charged through with a small squad, blasters raised.
“Don’t let her escape!” he barked. “Ventress is here—get the prisoner secured!”
Ventress hissed. “So much fuss.”
She threw out her hand, sending two clones flying down the hallway. Blaster fire lit up the corridor. You ducked as sparks rained from the ceiling.
Chaos.
And in chaos… came opportunity.
Your bindings were fried in the blast. Ventress might’ve been here to kill you—but she’d cracked open the door for your escape.
And you intended to walk through it.
You sprinted through the smoke just as Rex spotted you.
“Hey!” he shouted. “Stop—!”
But you were already lunging at him.
The fight was brutal.
He was stronger than you remembered. Faster. Smart. He fought with precision, training, and raw determination.
But you were sharper.
He aimed a blow to your ribs—you twisted, elbowed his jaw, then landed a swift kick that knocked him to the floor. He groaned, dazed.
You stood over him, panting, blood dripping from a cut above your brow. He looked up at you, chest heaving.
Disgust and fury warred in his eyes.
You knelt down beside him, fingers brushing the edge of his pauldron, and whispered:
“You really are hard to resist, Captain.”
Before he could speak, you leaned in—lips brushing his cheek in a slow, mocking kiss.
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
You smirked, breath warm at his ear.
“Tell Skywalker I’ll be seeing him soon.”
And with that, you were gone—vanishing into the smoke and fire.
Rex slammed his fist into the floor, jaw tight.
“Damn it.”
⸻
The shuttle descended through the clouds like a dagger slicing through silk.
You stood in the shadows of the ship’s hold, arms crossed, silent as Ventress piloted the last stretch home. Her usual smugness was absent. She hadn’t spoken since the escape. A rare show of restraint—for her.
You’d barely had time to process it all. The cell. The explosion. The fight with Rex.
The kiss.
You could still feel the heat of his skin under your lips. Could still see the fury in his eyes when you left him there, bruised and stunned.
Why you’d done it, you weren’t sure.
Maybe it was to mock him.
Or maybe it was something else.
You pushed the thought away.
The ship landed with a soft thrum. Dooku was already waiting.
He sat on his elevated seat, shrouded in darkness, back straight, fingers steepled. Regal. Cold.
The air buzzed with tension as you stepped before him, Ventress half a pace behind.
He stared at you for a long moment, then finally spoke.
“So,” he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with disapproval. “You return.”
“Alive,” you replied, offering a slight bow.
“For now.”
Ventress stepped forward. “Skywalker and his men nearly had her. I had to extract her myself.”
You snorted. “You also tried to gut me in the process.”
Dooku’s gaze slid to you, unmoved. “Your mission was simple: eliminate Skywalker.”
“I almost had him,” you said. “He’s just… more unhinged than I remembered.”
Dooku’s eyes narrowed. “And yet you engaged no clones. Left them alive. Odd, for an assassin.”
You met his stare. “They weren’t the target.”
“They were in your way.”
You were quiet.
Dooku stood, descending the steps like a judge preparing a sentence.
“You toyed with them.”
The words sliced like ice.
“You played a game you were not ordered to play. Especially with that clone—Captain Rex.”
You tensed.
Ventress glanced at you from the corner of her eye, smiling faintly.
Dooku continued. “Your emotions are tainted. Distracted. You lingered in the Force, and I felt the fracture.”
Your voice was soft but steady. “I completed the mission.”
“You failed the objective.”
His voice rose like thunder.
“You kissed the enemy.”
You blinked once. Slowly.
“I did,” you said.
Ventress gave a small, wicked chuckle. Dooku, however, was not amused.
He stepped closer.
“If you’ve grown soft… if you’ve begun to let sentiment guide you…”
“I haven’t.”
He leaned in, towering.
“You walk a knife’s edge, assassin. The dark side does not abide confusion.”
You tilted your head, voice low. “And yet it thrives on conflict.”
He studied you in silence. Measured. Calculating.
“Then make no mistake,” he said at last. “If you wish to remain useful… stop playing with your food.”
He turned, walking back to the shadows of his seat.
“Next time, you kill him.”
You didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure you could.
⸻
The holomap flickered blue, glowing across the surface of the table. Separatist movements. Naval placements. An entire campaign laid bare in lines and symbols.
Rex wasn’t looking at any of it.
He stood at attention, eyes fixed forward, jaw clenched.
But his thoughts were elsewhere.
Back in that hallway.
Back in the smoke.
Back to her lips brushing his cheek like a brand.
It made no sense. She was an assassin. A killer. She should’ve slit his throat when she had the chance.
Instead, she kissed him.
And now she was out there.
Alive.
And he hated that he kept thinking about her.
Across the room, Skywalker watched him with his arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“…You’ve barely spoken since the attack,” Anakin said at last, breaking the silence.
Rex blinked out of his haze. “Sir?”
“I said,” Anakin repeated, stepping forward, “you’ve been quiet.”
Rex shifted. “Just processing.”
“Hm.”
Skywalker studied him with that Jedi look—the one that peeled you apart without touching you.
“She messed with your head,” he said casually.
Rex stiffened. “No, sir.”
“She kissed you, didn’t she?”
That made him flinch. Just slightly. Just enough.
Anakin grinned, triumphant.
“Rex… my most dependable, rule-bound, chain-of-command clone… got kissed by a Sith.”
Rex scowled. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Wasn’t it?” Anakin leaned on the table. “You’ve been off since it happened. You volunteered to lead the recon mission to track her. You haven’t even joked with Fives.”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“You’re obsessed,” Anakin said bluntly. “And obsession leads to mistakes.”
Rex stepped forward. “I won’t make a mistake.”
Skywalker’s brow furrowed.
“Then tell me the truth. What happened in that hallway? Before she escaped.”
A pause. Tense. Thick.
Rex looked away.
“I hesitated.”
Anakin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“…I don’t know.”
It was the only honest thing he could say.
Skywalker exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I get it,” he muttered. “You see something in her that doesn’t make sense. It throws you off. Makes you wonder if the whole enemy line is as black-and-white as they drilled into us.”
He looked at Rex again, this time with less judgment. More understanding.
“I’ve been there,” he added quietly. “Trust me.”
Rex met his gaze. “What do I do?”
Anakin stepped forward, voice low and deadly serious.
“You find her.”
A beat.
“And next time… you don’t let her walk away.”
Rex nodded once.
But he wasn’t sure which part of that command he’d actually follow.
⸻
“Sir, you’re gonna wanna hear this,” Fives said, stepping into the room with Jesse right behind him, both looking far too smug for just a routine debrief.
Rex didn’t even glance up from where he was cleaning his blaster. “If it’s another story about how you two flirted your way through an outpost again, I’m not interested.”
Fives smirked. “This time it wasn’t me doing the flirting.”
Jesse elbowed him, grin wide. “She’s alive, Rex. The Sith.”
That got his attention.
Rex set the blaster down slowly. “Where?”
“Outer rim—some cragged little rock of a world,” Fives said, tossing a datapad onto the bunk. “Scouts clocked her landing in a stolen Separatist fighter. Alone. No guards. No backup. Like she’s hiding.”
“She is hiding,” Jesse added, more serious now. “She’s off comms. No Dooku, no Ventress, no Separatist chatter. It’s like she vanished off the map and doesn’t want anyone to find her.”
Rex stared at the datapad. Her face flickered on the holo.
Still dangerous. Still wanted. Still—
He clenched his jaw.
“She’s bait.”
“You think it’s a trap?” Fives asked.
“She got away once,” Rex said. “She could be luring us in again.”
But he wasn’t sure he believed that.
Because something about the reports didn’t match the woman he’d fought. The woman who’d kissed him like a dare and disappeared in smoke.
She wouldn’t hide.
Not unless she was hiding from them too.
⸻
You stood at the edge of the jagged cliff, cloak wrapped tight around your shoulders as the wind howled against the rocks below. Blaster in hand. Saber hidden. Breath shallow.
Every shadow was a threat.
Every sound could be them.
You hadn’t slept in days.
Dooku’s disappointment had been quiet—crushing in its indifference. He hadn’t hunted you.
He hadn’t even tried.
You were nothing to him now.
Ventress had left you for dead. The Separatist cause—what little you’d clung to of it—was gone.
And yet, part of you was relieved.
No more commands. No more darkness threading your every breath.
But freedom came with silence. And silence, with ghosts.
You kept expecting to feel him—Dooku’s presence, that icy command in the back of your skull.
Instead, all you felt was that clone captain’s eyes on you, burned into your memory.
Rex.
You hated how often your thoughts returned to him.
To his defiance.
His strength.
His disgust.
That heat in his stare when you kissed him.
You’d told yourself it was just a game.
So why did it still make your chest ache?
You swallowed hard.
And then you felt it.
A presence in the Force. Close. Familiar.
And getting closer.
“They found me.”
⸻
Rex stared out the viewport, helmet clutched in his hands.
“Think she’ll fight?” Jesse asked behind him.
Fives leaned back with a grin. “She’ll flirt first.”
Rex ignored them.
“She’s changed,” he said, more to himself than to them.
Jesse raised a brow. “You sure about that?”
“No.”
But something told him this wasn’t the same assassin who once whispered threats like poetry and left him bleeding on the deck.
This woman was running.
And maybe—just maybe—she was running from herself.
⸻
The air was thin. Cold. The kind that bit into your lungs and forced you to breathe slow or not at all.
Rex moved like a shadow, rifle low, boots silent on the cracked stone. The trail was faint—half-buried footprints, a heat signature already fading. Whoever she was now… she was trying not to be found.
She should’ve known better.
She was good.
But he was better.
A flash of movement to his right.
He turned, fast—blaster raised, ready to fire.
And there she was.
Perched on the edge of the cliff like some half-feral creature, cloak torn, hair wild in the wind. Her saber was clipped at her hip, untouched. Not lit. Not raised.
She didn’t flinch when he pointed the blaster at her.
In fact—she looked tired.
“…Rex,” you said, voice rough, wind-swept.
The way his name sounded from your mouth—it sent something low and confused curling in his gut.
“Drop the weapon,” he barked.
You raised your hands. Slowly.
“I’m unarmed.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
You tilted your head, voice softer. “If I wanted to kill you, Captain, you’d already be bleeding.”
“And if I wanted to take you in,” he countered, stepping forward, “you’d already be cuffed.”
You smiled—sharp. Tired. “Then why aren’t I?”
Rex didn’t answer.
He studied you.
No backup. No escape route. No fight.
This wasn’t an ambush.
This wasn’t a trap.
This was… surrender.
“Where’s your army?” he asked.
“Gone.”
“Dooku?”
You scoffed. “Didn’t even notice I left.”
“And Ventress?”
A beat. Your jaw tightened. “She tried to kill me.”
That, at least, made sense.
Rex lowered the blaster just an inch.
“I’m not with them anymore,” you said, voice low.
“Why should I believe you?”
You looked at him.
Not smiling. Not teasing.
Just looking.
“I don’t care if you do.”
Another beat of silence.
And then, you stepped forward—only once, hands still raised.
“Just don’t call it in,” you said. “Not yet.”
He stared at you.
One word. One plea.
“Please.”
It wasn’t seductive.
It wasn’t tactical.
It was real.
And Rex felt something twist in his chest—guilt or rage or something else entirely.
The wind howled between you.
And he… didn’t pull the trigger.
Rex’s hand hovered over his comm. He could feel her eyes on him—watching, weighing. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
The truth sat thick between them.
“501st recon team,” he said into the transmitter. “Target trail went cold. Tracks disappear into the ridge. Visibility’s dropping—might have to call it for the night.”
There was a pause.
Then static cracked and—
“You lost her?” Fives’ voice came through, incredulous.
“Lost or let go?” Jesse muttered, too close to the mic.
Rex closed his eyes briefly. “Negative. She’s not here. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
Before they could push back, he shut off the comm and tucked it into his belt.
When he turned, she was already walking toward the small cave behind the outcrop, half-collapsed from age, half-hidden by a rockfall.
“Storm’s rolling in,” you said. “If you’re going to arrest me, you’d better do it inside.”
Rex followed without a word.
⸻
The wind screamed outside, carrying dust and rain in harsh gusts. But inside, the air was still—tense. Dry. The flickering firelight cast your shadows long against the stone.
You sat cross-legged near the flames, cloak shed, arms bare beneath the loose black tunic. Scars crossed your skin like old lightning—some faded, others fresh. A lifetime of battles carved in silence.
Rex sat across from you, blaster close, helmet beside him. Watching.
Always watching.
“You don’t trust me,” you said quietly.
“No.”
“Good.”
You smirked, dragging a finger along the edge of the cup you were warming with tea.
“But you didn’t call me in.”
“I should have.”
“But you didn’t.”
You looked up. Eyes meeting his.
And for the first time, neither of you looked away.
“I’m not your enemy anymore, Rex.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“No. But I can stop pretending I’m something I’m not.”
You exhaled, slowly.
“I left Dooku. I left the war. Not because I grew a conscience—but because I realized I was disposable. Replaceable. Just another weapon to him. Just another broken thing.”
Rex’s fingers twitched at that. He knew what that felt like.
You leaned back, gaze drifting to the fire. “I always thought loyalty was earned by killing for someone. But it turns out, it’s just something you can lose when you stop being useful.”
The cave was silent, save for the crackle of flames.
Then—
“You were never useful to me,” Rex said flatly.
You huffed a dry laugh. “No. I was a headache.”
“A dangerous one.”
“And yet… you didn’t shoot.”
You tilted your head, curious. “Why?”
Rex looked at you then. Really looked.
You weren’t the same woman who’d cut down Jedi guards in the halls of the Resolute. You were raw now. Scuffed. Not harmless—but maybe human.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“That’s honest,” you said softly. “I thought clones weren’t allowed to be.”
He flinched at that.
“I didn’t kill your brothers,” you added, more serious now. “I swore I never would.”
Rex didn’t respond right away.
Then, finally—
“I believe you.”
The words hung in the air like a confession.
You looked at him again, eyes darker now. “You gonna let me go in the morning?”
He hesitated.
“…I don’t know yet.”
Another pause.
Then you leaned forward, across the firelight, voice low.
“I still think about you, you know. About that kiss.”
His jaw tightened. “You only did that to get under my skin.”
You smiled. “Did it work?”
He didn’t answer.
You were closer now. Too close.
And maybe it was the firelight. Or the silence. Or the ache of too many choices unmade.
But Rex didn’t move when you reached out.
Your fingers grazed the edge of his jaw, feather-light. “You ever wonder if this would’ve been different… if we weren’t on opposite sides?”
He met your gaze.
“I don’t have time to wonder.”
“Maybe you should start.”
You leaned in—close enough to steal his breath.
Then, at the last second, you pulled back.
“Get some rest, Captain,” you said, curling into your cloak near the fire.
Rex sat stiff as stone, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
And outside, the storm raged.
⸻
Fives squinted up at the ridge through his electrobinoculars.
“No way he lost the trail,” he muttered.
Jesse nodded. “You felt it too, right? The way he said it? That pause.”
Fives smirked. “He found her.”
“And didn’t bring her in.”
They shared a look.
“Think we’re gonna see her again?” Jesse asked.
Fives clicked his tongue.
“I think he hopes not.”
⸻
The storm had passed.
The wind was still sharp, but the sky was clearing—streaks of pale blue bleeding into the clouds like a fresh wound, wide and open. Sunlight spilled over the stone like a promise. Cold, but clean.
You stood near the edge of the ridge, cloak fluttering behind you, face turned toward the sunrise.
Rex approached, slow. Steady. Blaster holstered. Helmet tucked under one arm.
You didn’t look back at first. Just spoke, voice low.
“They’ll know soon enough.”
“I know.”
“They’ll think you let me go.”
“I did.”
Finally, you turned to him.
Eyes locked. That unspoken thing still between you—never named. Never safe enough to be.
“But you’ll lie for me?” you asked, more curious than hopeful.
“No,” he said, firm. “But I’ll say I hesitated.”
You smiled, just a little. “That’s fair.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then you stepped forward. Closer.
“This is the part where I disappear again.”
He didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step forward.
Didn’t say stay.
Because he couldn’t.
You leaned in, eyes searching his.
“I meant what I said, Captain,” you murmured. “About thinking of you.”
And before he could say a word, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—right over the scar that ran along his jaw. It lingered longer than the first. Not teasing this time. Not taunting.
Just real.
Warm.
A goodbye.
Rex didn’t move. Couldn’t.
And then you were gone.
Cloak over your shoulders, vanishing into the canyon beyond. No sound. No trace.
Like you’d never been there at all.
Except he’d never forget.
⸻
Jesse looked up first. “Incoming.”
Fives leaned on a crate, chewing rations. “He better not say she vanished.”
Rex stepped through the brush, helmet under his arm, face unreadable.
“You lose the trail again?” Jesse asked dryly.
“She was never there,” Rex said.
Fives snorted. “Yeah, sure. The wind just happened to blow out tracks in one direction.”
“I didn’t find her,” Rex said again, firmer. “She’s gone.”
They watched him.
Said nothing.
Jesse raised an eyebrow, but Fives elbowed him, letting it go.
And as Rex walked past them, calm and steady and very clearly not okay—Fives caught a glimpse of something under his ear.
A smear.
No, not a smear.
Lipstick.
Fives blinked.
Then grinned like a menace.
But before he could say a word, Rex tossed his helmet back on.
And muttered without looking back—
“Don’t.”
Warnings: injury
The smell of caf, oil, and clone armor clung to the air as you strolled into the briefing tent, half a pastry in your hand and absolutely no shame in your step. Anakin was already leaning over the holotable with Ahsoka at his side, mid-conversation with Rex about insertion points and droid resistance.
“There she is,” Anakin said, smirking as you bit into your breakfast. “Glad you could make it. We were all really worried you might be doing something important, like sleeping in.”
You gave him an exaggerated bow, crumbs falling from your lips. “The Force told me to take five. Who am I to argue with destiny?”
Ahsoka laughed. “She’s worse than you, Master.”
“I’m standing right here,” Anakin said dryly.
“And I’m complimenting you,” you shot back, tossing the last of your pastry into your mouth. “You’re rubbing off on me, Skywalker. I’m starting to think I’m unfit for Jedi Council politics.”
“That makes two of us,” Anakin muttered.
Rex cleared his throat gently. “Briefing, General?”
“Right,” Anakin said. “Serious faces. Tactical minds. Let’s go.”
You stood beside Ahsoka, arms crossed, watching the blue holographic map flicker into life. The target: a droid manufacturing facility buried beneath a city block on this dusty, nowhere Separatist planet. Classic war story setup—deep insertion, sabotage, get-out-before-the-ceiling-caves-in sort of plan.
Anakin pointed to three key locations. “Ahsoka, you’ll take your Squad through the northern tunnel system. I’ll come in from the west. You,” he glanced at you, “get to lead Torrent Company. Rex is heading point. Kix is your field medic.”
“Excellent,” you said brightly. “If I get blown up, I know exactly whose name to scream out.” And winked at Kix.
Kix, who’d been standing with perfect form behind Rex, blinked and glanced your way.
“Don’t flatter him,” Anakin said, grinning. “It goes to his head.”
“I think he deserves it,” you said with a shrug.
“Force help us,” Ahsoka muttered with a smile.
Kix said nothing, but you knew he heard it. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just a little.
Anakin resumed the plan rundown. “Once we’ve cleared the tunnel entrance, regroup at the main lift shaft, plant the charges, and extract. Simple. Clean. Hopefully fast.”
“Hopefully,” you echoed. “But if it isn’t, I call dibs on the most dramatic death scene.”
“No one’s dying,” Rex said, exasperated.
You leaned toward Ahsoka and whispered, “He’s no fun at all.”
⸻
Things went sideways by hour three.
The drop had gone smoothly. Your team slipped through the tunnel entrance with minimal resistance. You moved like water through the dark—saber humming, the Force buzzing at your fingertips, and Kix never more than a few meters behind.
The issue? Droid reinforcements. Heavier than expected. A trap inside the sublevels. When the floor collapsed under you and half your squad, you barely had time to throw up a Force shield before the shrapnel cut through you like knives.
You hit the ground hard. Your saber skidded away, and a jagged spike of pain tore through your side.
“General!” Kix’s voice came sharp and clear, echoing through the smoke.
You coughed, tried to sit up, and gasped. Your hand came away red.
Kix dropped beside you in seconds, already snapping open his medkit. His gloves were steady. His jaw was clenched. “You’re lucky it missed your vital organs.”
“Define lucky,” you rasped.
“Alive.”
“You’re sweet,” you mumbled, swaying slightly.
“Try not to pass out,” he said, voice tight as he pressed a bacta patch over the worst of the wound. “You need to stay awake.”
“Trying,” you slurred. “But you’re very distracting.”
He blinked down at you. “What?”
“Your eyes. They’re the worst. Too blue. And your voice is soothing. It’s unfair. You should come with a warning label.”
You felt his hands pause for a fraction of a second.
“Considering you can’t see my eyes, and the fact they are brown not blue. You’re delirious,” he muttered, but you could hear the faintest crack of a smile in his voice.
“I am not,” you insisted, blinking up at him. “In the past 3 minutes I’ve thought about kissing you like, five times. Maybe six. Who knows. Jedi don’t count those things.”
Kix worked in silence for a moment, patching you up, checking your pulse, muttering about shock and bacta levels. You didn’t stop talking.
“You always there for them,” you murmured. “Always patient. Always there. And you never say anything. But I can see it. I see you. You’re kind, Kix. Gentle. That’s rare in this war.”
Kix looked at you then. Really looked. And something in his eyes softened—like a thaw he hadn’t allowed himself before.
“I’m not gentle,” he said quietly. “I’m trained to fix people. That’s all.”
“You’ve certainly fixed me,” you whispered.
He didn’t respond to that. He just pulled you close enough to hoist you into his arms, careful not to jostle your wounds.
“Rex, I’ve got the general. She’s stable but needs evac,” he said into the comm, already moving.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, groggy and fading. “You smell like antiseptic and courage.”
“You’re gonna be so embarrassed when you wake up.”
“I’m already embarrassed. I haven’t kissed you yet.”
Kix let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe something softer. “Maybe next time, starlight. When you’re not bleeding out.”
⸻
You woke up in the medbay. Groggy. Alive. Sore as hell.
The lights were dimmed, and someone was sitting beside you, back straight, arms crossed. Kix.
“You stayed,” you rasped.
He glanced at you. “I wanted to see if you’d survive.”
“And…?”
His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m glad you did.”
There was a long pause. Then, with a smirk:
“So, did you mean any of it?” he asked. “The eyes. The courage. The part about kissing me?”
You smiled, exhausted but warm all over.
“Oh yeah. Every word.”
Kix leaned forward slowly, carefully, one hand brushing your cheek.
“Then let’s see if you’re a better kisser than a patient.”
You definitely were.
⸻
You’d barely been discharged from the medbay when Skywalker and Ahsoka appeared at your door like vultures circling a wounded animal.
“Well, well, well,” Anakin drawled, arms crossed and grin far too smug. “Look who decided to flirt her way through a near-death experience.”
Ahsoka stood beside him, trying and failing to look serious. “Rex told us everything. Said you were practically writing a love poem while bleeding out.”
You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Does no one in this battalion understand the concept of privacy?”
“Not when the drama’s this good,” Ahsoka said, plopping herself at the foot of your bed. “I mean, you told Kix he smells like courage. Who says that?”
“It was the blood loss talking.”
Anakin raised a brow. “You also apparently told him his eyes were ‘too blue.’ That doesn’t even make sense. Too blue? His eyes are brown!”
“Must’ve been the armor” you snapped, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor. “It’s aggravating. Like being judged by a beach.”
They both burst out laughing.
“Stars,” Ahsoka wheezed, wiping her eyes. “You’re lucky Master Yoda wasn’t in the room. You’d be Force-grounded for breaking the code.”
Anakin wiggled his brows. “Technically, I’m not allowed to judge.”
You shot him a look. “Please. You’re the last person who gets to bring up the Jedi Code.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Anyway,” Ahsoka said, sitting up straighter with a sly smile. “What we want to know is: did you get the kiss?”
You gave them both a very satisfied, very smug smile.
“I did.”
Silence.
Anakin blinked. “Wait. What?”
“You kissed Kix?” Ahsoka practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “When?”
“In the medbay. Post-stitches. Very romantic. Smelled like disinfectant and trauma bonding.”
Anakin shook his head in mock disbelief. “Force help us. You’re worse than I am.”
“I know,” you said with a smirk. “And unlike you, I don’t pretend to be subtle.”
Ahsoka howled with laughter.
Outside, you could’ve sworn you heard clone boots squeaking away from the medbay window. Probably Jesse or Fives listening in. Again.
“You’re never gonna live this down,” Anakin said, grinning wide.
You leaned back, smug and satisfied. “I don’t plan to.”
⸻
Fives and Jesse stumbled into the barracks like two kids who’d just found contraband candy in the Temple. Breathless, grinning, eyes wide with glee.
“Kix,” Jesse gasped, skidding to a stop in front of the medic’s bunk. “Tell me it’s true.”
Kix looked up from cleaning his kit, brow raised. “Tell you what’s true?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Fives said, practically vibrating with energy. “We heard it. Straight from her own mouth.”
“She kissed you!” Jesse blurted. “Right in the medbay!”
Kix blinked once. “You were eavesdropping?”
Fives held up a hand. “Strategically positioned for morale updates.”
“You mean you pressed your faces to the window like nosey cadets,” Kix muttered, already regretting every life choice that led him here.
Fives flopped onto a bunk like he’d just been awarded a medal. “Kissing a Jedi… while she was still half-dead. That’s next-level.”
“She called you a ‘war angel in plastoid,’” Jesse said with a grin. “That’s poetry, Kix. Pure poetry.”
Kix groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I was saving her life.”
“Yeah, and then saving her lips,” Fives added.
Jesse smacked his arm. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doesn’t have to,” Fives said proudly. “It’s romance.”
Kix opened his mouth to fire back—but then the door slid open, and in walked Rex.
“Why are you two shouting like regs on a first patrol—” He paused mid-sentence, eyes narrowing at the scene. Fives smirking. Jesse grinning. Kix looking like he wanted to dissolve into bacta.
Rex raised a brow. “Am I walking into a war crime or a love story?”
Jesse pointed at Kix. “Our boy kissed the General.”
Rex blinked. Once. Then twice.
Then, completely deadpan, he said, “About time.”
Kix’s jaw dropped. “Rex!”
Fives lost it. “I knew you knew! I knew it!”
Rex crossed his arms, smiling just enough to twist the knife. “She’s been making eyes at him the whole campaign. Whole battalion’s been waiting for someone to make a move. Just didn’t expect it to happen during triage.”
Jesse gasped. “You knew and didn’t tell us?!”
Rex shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the suspense.”
Fives snorted. “Cold, Rex. Cold.”
Kix looked like he was seriously considering injecting himself with a sedative. “I hate all of you.”
Rex clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll live, lover boy.”
Jesse wheezed.
“Alright, alright,” Rex said finally, stepping back toward the door. “Joke time’s over. Back to your posts before I have you cleaning carbon scoring with your tongues.”
Fives groaned. “He always ruins the fun.”
Jesse saluted with a grin. “On it, Captain Matchmaker.”
They left laughing, boots thudding down the corridor, and Kix sat in the silence for a moment, staring down at his gloves.
Then, quietly, under his breath:
“…War angel in plastoid?”
He smiled. Just a little.
Warnings: death, mentions of death
⸻
You never forgot the sound of blaster fire echoing through empty streets.
Even with the sun climbing high above Nabat’s fractured skyline, even with the Separatists driven out and your people reclaiming their homes, the war still sat heavy on your chest.
The battle was over.
But it didn’t feel over.
You moved through the dusty ruins of your home, running your fingers along the cracked walls and scorched doorframe, unsure what to hold onto. So much was gone. So much had been taken.
“Hey,” a low voice said behind you.
You turned—and froze.
It was him.
Waxer.
Helmet under one arm, bald head beaded with sweat, armor smudged with chalk and soot. Beside him stood another trooper—Boil, if you remembered right. He had his arms crossed, smirking in that way men do when they know something they’re not saying.
But you didn’t look at Boil.
Your eyes went to Waxer.
And to your little sister—Numa—curled up in his arms, her head against his shoulder.
“Sorry to barge in,” Waxer said quietly. “She wouldn’t let go.”
“I can see that,” you breathed, stepping forward.
Numa’s head popped up at your voice. “Sister!”
You caught her as she wriggled out of Waxer’s arms and ran to you. She threw herself at your legs, and you dropped to your knees to scoop her into your chest, pressing kisses to the top of her dusty head.
Tears burned your eyes.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered into her hair.
“She hid,” Waxer said. “Smart girl. We found her in a supply closet.”
Boil added, “She gave us more intel than half the generals on this rock.”
Numa giggled, her tiny hand reaching back toward Waxer.
“I was brave,” she said proudly.
You looked up at him. “She wouldn’t have made it without you.”
Waxer rubbed the back of his neck, a little awkward. “She kept us going.”
Boil let out a chuckle and nudged his brother-in-arms. “You’re lucky she didn’t draw all over your head too, shiny.”
“I’m not shiny,” Waxer muttered without heat. “And I like the drawings.”
You noticed the chalk on his armor now—Numa’s doing. Little stars and hearts and lopsided flowers smeared over white plastoid. One even looked like you.
“She drew me?” you asked softly.
Waxer nodded. “She said you always looked after her. She wanted to return the favor.”
Your heart cracked in half.
“Stay,” you said, almost without meaning to. “Just for a little while. Please.”
⸻
They stayed.
Boil found an intact kettle and tried to boil water over an open flame, grumbling about “primitive” cooking while Numa climbed over his lap and demanded a story. He caved within minutes.
Waxer sat beside you on the remains of a stone bench in the courtyard. The village was quiet now—calm. Your people were rebuilding. But in this moment, it was just the two of you.
“Does it always feel like this after a mission?” you asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes worse.”
You watched him for a moment. The slope of his jaw. The cut near his brow. The dark stubble shadowing his skull. He looked young. Too young to have seen so much death.
“You don’t look like a soldier,” you said.
He raised a brow. “I’m wearing full armor.”
“I know,” you said. “But when you’re with her… with Numa… you don’t look like a soldier. You look like a person.”
He blinked slowly. “That’s rare.”
You reached over, fingers brushing his hand. He didn’t flinch.
“She sees you as family,” you murmured. “And she’s usually right about people.”
Waxer swallowed.
“I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t get attached.”
“But you did.”
He didn’t answer.
You turned your hand so your fingers laced with his. “So did I.”
His eyes flicked to your face—wary, stunned, searching.
“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “But I know what’s happening now.”
You leaned in, and with the softest of brushes, pressed your lips to his cheek—just below the scar.
Waxer sat very, very still.
Boil, across the courtyard, snorted. “About time.”
“Shut up,” Waxer muttered, but he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The next morning, they were set to leave.
Gunships loomed at the edge of the village, ready to extract the 212th.
Boil crouched in front of Numa, letting her tie a flower to his pauldron while Waxer stood beside you, helmet tucked under his arm.
He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he said quietly:
“I don’t want to go.”
“Then don’t,” you said, teasing, even as your chest ached. “Desert. Live on Ryloth. I’ll make you dinner.”
He gave a soft, breathy laugh. “Tempting.”
You reached up, cupped his cheek.
“Promise me something,” you said.
He nodded.
“Come back. One day. When the war’s over. Find us.”
His lips pressed into a line. “I’ll try.”
You stared at him. “I want more than try, Waxer.”
He leaned forward, rested his forehead against yours.
“I’ll find my way home,” he whispered.
You let him go.
But your heart didn’t
⸻
The war kept him away—but never silent.
Even when systems burned and the front lines shifted faster than you could chart, Waxer always found time. A few spare minutes between missions, a cracked hologram on a beaten-up transmitter, or the low, static-drenched voice in your ear late at night.
He always reached out.
“Hey, starshine.”
It was your nickname. A joke from the first message, because you said his armor caught the light like a second sun.
You saved every one of his transmissions.
He’d tell you about whatever hellscape he and Boil were deployed on, never in detail, never the real horror of it—but enough to let you know he was alive. You’d tell him about Numa, about how she was growing taller, sassier, stronger. Sometimes she’d grab the comm and yell, “WAXER!!” until he laughed so hard he had to mute his mic.
Sometimes, when he was safe and still and alone, he’d whisper:
“I miss you.”
You always whispered it back.
⸻
Just before Umbara, the transmission came through. Crystal clear.
He was grinning, helmet in hand, dust and soot smudging his cheeks, but his eyes—his eyes held that quiet warmth you’d grown to crave.
“Got something to show you,” he said.
He turned the helmet in his hands. Painted on the side—Numa’s smiling face.
It was rough. A little lopsided. But it was her.
“Maker,” you whispered. “She’s going to lose it.”
“She better,” he said, laughing. “She helped.”
“Boil let you do this?”
“He said it was dumb.” Waxer smirked. “Then asked if I’d paint him next.”
You laughed. You hadn’t laughed that hard in weeks.
He looked away for a second, rubbed the back of his neck. “Hey… when this mission’s done, I’ve got leave. Cody already signed off.”
You blinked. “You’re serious?”
“I’ll be there. You and Numa better be ready. I’m thinking a quiet week. No comms. Just us.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “We’ve been waiting for that since Ryloth.”
“Then I won’t make you wait any longer than I have to,” he said. “Soon, okay?”
“Soon.”
⸻
But soon never came.
⸻
Boil arrived with the 212th’s relief team. Numa ran to him before you saw the look in his eyes. That raw, hollow expression.
He didn’t say anything. Just knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. She kept asking where Waxer was. Kept asking why he wasn’t with him.
You stood there. Frozen. Staring.
Boil approached slowly, helmet tucked under one arm. Your heart pounded.
“Where is he?” you asked, already knowing. “He said he was coming back.”
Boil shook his head.
“They were split up,” he said quietly. “He was in a different squad.… no backup.”
You couldn’t breathe.
“I didn’t see him go,” Boil admitted. “But I saw what was left.”
You pressed a hand over your mouth. “He promised—”
“I know,” Boil said, voice cracking. “He meant it.”
He held out Waxer’s helmet. The paint—Numa’s face—was still there. Smudged with ash. But smiling.
You collapsed to your knees. Held it like it was him. Like he might still be warm.
Numa clutched your arm, confused and quiet.
“Did he forget?” she whispered.
You shook your head. “No, little one. He didn’t forget.”
Boil crouched beside you, gaze heavy with guilt. “He talked about you two all the time. You were his anchor. His light. We used to tease him, but… he loved you.”
You didn’t respond.
The helmet said enough.
⸻
You buried it beneath the tree outside your home. Numa placed a flower on top.
Every night after, you looked up at the stars and whispered:
“Just one more call. Just tell me you made it.”
But the silence said it all.
Pabu, post-series finale.
⸻
Pabu was alive in a way Crosshair didn’t trust.
It didn’t hum with ships overhead. It didn’t reek of oil and war. It didn’t echo with the weight of command or the thrum of tension beneath every breath. It just… was.
Seagulls circled the docks at dawn, squawking like idiots. Kids yelled, feet slapping on sandstone. The trees rustled in an offbeat rhythm that never stopped, and the air always smelled of sea salt, grilled fish, and ripe fruit fermenting in the heat.
He hated it.
Except he didn’t.
⸻
The people here didn’t stare at his missing hand. They didn’t ask if he’d lost it saving someone or killing someone. They just noticed, nodded, and shifted baskets or tools so he could carry them with his off hand.
He still hadn’t told them his name.
You were the first person to say it out loud.
“You don’t look like a Crosshair,” you said, half-laughing, barefoot on the edge of a weatherworn dock. “You look like someone who’s trying very hard not to care what anyone thinks, but secretly cares a lot.”
He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “You talk too much.”
“And you sulk too much.”
That got a smirk out of him.
⸻
Your home sat along the middle tier of Pabu, tucked between wild flowering vines and one of the best views of the ocean. You’d lived there your whole life—grew up learning tide patterns, storm warnings, how to fish with traps and nets and patience.
You never once said “thank you for your service” or asked what Crosshair had done in the war.
You just asked if he wanted to help you set crab traps or throw stones into the water.
Sometimes, when the wind died down, you sat beside him on the cliff paths and told him stories. Not important ones. Just the kind that reminded him the world was still turning. That people still existed without orders.
One night, after a heavy rain, you gave him a glass bottle.
It had been washed up on the beach—inside, a note: “If you’re reading this, you’re alive. And that’s enough.”
“Found it when I was sixteen,” you said. “Kept it. Never opened it until this year. Figured I’d give it to someone who needed it more.”
He held it in his one hand for a long moment. The glass was warm from your touch. The note inside felt… real.
“…Thanks.”
You smiled. “Was that hard?”
“Extremely.”
⸻
He hadn’t gotten a prosthetic yet. Couldn’t bring himself to.
The scarred stump still ached when the air pressure shifted. Sometimes he looked at it and imagined the rifle he used to hold. The precise balance of metal and bone. The impossible stillness.
Now, he shook from time to time. Not from pain. From stillness.
He didn’t tell you that.
But you saw it anyway.
“Everyone here’s missing something,” you said, gently, one night beneath the low firelight. “Some people just hide it better.”
He didn’t answer.
So you leaned your shoulder against his.
Just… stayed there.
No pressure. No performance.
He stayed too.
⸻
It wasn’t until days later—when he instinctively caught your elbow as you slipped on a mossy stone, one arm wrapped around you to steady your fall—that something cracked open.
You looked up at him, breathless and close.
“You always this chivalrous?” you asked.
“No,” he said. “Just with you.”
And for once, he didn’t pull away.
⸻
The knock came softly. Not the kind meant to wake someone—just a hesitant brush of knuckles against wood. As if whoever stood behind your door wasn’t sure they should be there.
You were already awake.
Pabu was quiet at night—so quiet, sometimes it felt like the island held its breath while the sea whispered to the cliffs. You liked that silence. Usually. But not tonight.
Tonight, something in you itched.
You opened the door barefoot, hair tangled from tossing in bed, lantern in hand.
And there he was.
Crosshair.
Bare-chested in loose sleep pants and boots, as if he’d thrown on the first things he could grab. No weapon. No cloak. No sharpness in his eyes—just shadows.
You blinked, taken off guard. “Crosshair?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t look at you, either.
He was staring past your shoulder, jaw tight, that missing hand hanging stiff at his side like he forgot it wasn’t still whole.
You lowered the lantern a little. Let the soft light reach him without pressing too close. “You okay?”
Silence.
You could hear his breath—too fast, like he’d been running or trying not to.
He shifted. Like he was about to speak.
Instead, he shook his head.
And still didn’t leave.
So, you stepped back. Just one step. Just enough.
“…Come in.”
He hovered in your doorway for a second longer. A soldier waiting for permission.
Then finally—finally—he moved.
The door closed with a soft click, and the weight of him filled your small space like a storm.
He didn’t sit. Didn’t talk.
Just stood there, arms at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
You crossed the room, pulled a blanket from the couch, and held it out—not with pity. With choice.
“Take it or leave it.”
His eyes flicked to you then.
A flicker of something… human. Something wounded.
He took it.
You sat on the floor by the open window, letting the sea breeze move through the warm room, and waited. Not for a story. Just for him.
Eventually, he joined you. Knees drawn up, the blanket over his shoulders, that haunted look still tucked behind every line of his face.
“I had a dream,” he said. Voice low. Raw.
You didn’t interrupt.
“They left me,” he added. “I was… screaming. And no one turned around.”
You watched his hand. The one hand. Clenching.
“I couldn’t even hold my rifle. Couldn’t fight back. I just stood there. Worthless.”
“That wasn’t real,” you said gently.
His jaw flexed. “Felt real.”
You leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded. “Sometimes the past grabs you like that. Won’t let go until you rip it out by the roots.”
He looked at you. Noticed the way you weren’t looking at him—but near him. Close enough he could speak. Far enough he didn’t feel cornered.
“…Why’d I come here?”
You tilted your head toward him.
“Because you didn’t want to be alone.”
Silence again.
Then softer—softer than you thought he could manage—he said, “You make it easier. Breathing.”
You smiled, small and true.
“Then stay.”
And he did.
He didn’t touch you. Didn’t sleep.
Just sat beside you while the tide rolled in, and the lantern flickered low, and—for the first time in a long, long time—he let himself rest.
Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon.
Just a man.
Bruised. Tired. Still here.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to survive it alone.
⸻
The scent of eggs and something burning pulled you gently from sleep.
You blinked against the golden light spilling through your window, warmth already seeping into the room. Birds chirped somewhere up in the palms. The sea whispered low and lazy outside.
And in your tiny kitchen—Crosshair.
He stood shirtless, the thin blanket you’d given him still draped over his shoulders, bunched awkwardly at the elbows as he tried to manage a small pan one-handed.
You sat up slowly, watching him fumble with the spatula in his off hand. Every motion was too stiff, too careful, like he was trying not to admit how difficult this actually was.
There was a tiny line between his brows. Concentration. Frustration.
A hiss of oil popped.
He flinched.
You slid off the bed quietly and crossed the room barefoot.
“…Need help?”
“No,” he said instantly—too fast.
You smiled, stepping closer anyway. “You sure? Because your eggs look like they’re losing a war.”
He didn’t glance over. “I’m adapting.”
Your voice was soft now, near his shoulder. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not.”
He was. But you didn’t push.
Instead, you reached past him to turn the heat down a little. Let your fingers brush his wrist—not enough to startle. Just enough to say I’m here.
He didn’t pull away.
That felt like something.
You leaned in, your voice like the morning breeze, warm and teasing. “For the record… it smells better than it looks.”
He gave a low snort. “I’ll keep that in mind, chef.”
And that’s when you did it.
You stepped in close, reached up gently—and kissed his cheek.
Just a press of lips. Soft. Unrushed. Not asking anything from him.
He went completely still.
You could feel the tension in him coil tight—but not in fear. Not anger. Just something… undone.
You pulled back slowly, eyes searching his face. “Thank you,” you said, voice barely a whisper. “For being here.”
His gaze dropped to you. Quiet. Intense. Like he was trying to make sense of you.
“…Didn’t think I’d want to stay,” he admitted, voice hoarse.
“And now?”
Crosshair looked down at the half-burnt eggs. The soft light catching the curve of your cheek. Your hand still barely brushing his.
“…Still don’t.”
A pause.
“But I think I will.”
Warnings: slightly sexually suggestive
⸻
You swore he was doing it on purpose.
That whole “silent and brooding” thing he had going on? Weaponized. His voice, low and gravelly, the way he leaned against walls like they were built just for him, arms crossed and muscles on full display. He moved like he had time to kill and knew exactly how dangerous he looked doing it.
You were not immune. Maker, you were struggling.
It didn’t help that the Hunter Effect seemed to get worse during downtime. No blasterfire, no missions, just a hot planet, a half-broken fan in the corner of the Marauder, and him doing pull-ups in a sweat-soaked tank top like he was in some holodrama made for thirst traps.
You were trying not to stare. Failing miserably.
Hunter dropped from the bar with a soft thud and turned toward you like he’d felt the heat of your gaze. Probably had. Damn enhanced senses.
“You alright over there?” he asked, voice rich with amusement.
“Fine,” you replied, a little too quickly.
He raised a brow as he walked past, close enough to brush your shoulder with his—on purpose, probably. You bit your lip. Hard.
“Y’look a little flushed,” he said, and there was that grin. The knowing one. “Could be the heat. Could be something else.”
“Could be your ego,” you fired back, refusing to look up from your datapad.
He didn’t answer, but you could feel the smirk behind you.
Later that night, the heat stuck around—and so did he. The others were asleep or off doing their own thing, and you ended up side by side with Hunter near the edge of the ship’s loading ramp, sitting in the dark, stars overhead. You were close—closer than you usually allowed yourself to be.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just passed you a flask of something strong and let the silence settle.
Then—
“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”
Your breath caught.
“I don’t mind,” he continued, “but I figured I’d give you the chance to stop pretending.”
You turned to face him. He was already looking at you, intense and calm, like he’d been waiting for this moment.
“Pretending?” you asked, trying to play dumb.
He gave a soft chuckle. “You’re not subtle, mesh’la. And I’ve got good instincts.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because honestly… yeah. He was right. And you were caught.
Hunter shifted closer, gaze dropping to your lips just briefly—enough.
“I’ve been watching you too,” he added, voice low now, like a secret. “Listening to how your heartbeat changes when I get close. I like the way you look at me. Like you’re thinking about what it’d be like.”
Your throat went dry. “To do what?”
He smirked. “To ride.”
You choked on air.
“I meant a speeder,” he said, utterly deadpan.
You shoved his arm. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
You paused.
“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I really do.”
His smile dropped into something deeper, something real. His hand brushed yours, lingered.
“Then maybe it’s time we stop dancing around it.”
You looked at him—really looked. The man you fought beside, trusted with your life, laughed with, wanted like nothing else.
“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s ride.”
He leaned in, lips ghosting yours.
“Hold on tight, sweetheart.”
⸻
⸻
Blaster fire lit up the crumbling ruins like lightning in a dead storm. You ducked behind a scorched column, heart pounding, comms blaring with garbled voices. Another skirmish, another senseless conflict in a war that never stopped taking.
You weren’t a soldier, not really. Intelligence officer, field analyst—whatever title the Republic slapped on you, it didn’t change the fact that you ended up on the frontlines more often than not. Especially when you were assigned to the 501st.
Especially when he was there.
“Behind you!”
Fives’ voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. You dropped low just in time for him to fire over your head, taking down the droid that had been about to fry you. He slid into cover beside you, breathing hard, face streaked with soot and blood.
“Close one,” you muttered.
“You really know how to pick your spots,” he said, flashing that grin—the one that used to make your knees weak. Still did, if you were being honest.
You laughed, short and bitter. “This war’s got a habit of throwing us into hell together, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “It does.”
You looked at him then, really looked. Fives wasn’t just tired—he was worn, stretched thin by secrets, loss, and the weight of being more than just another number. He was alive, but barely hanging on. And you hated that the Republic didn’t see it. That they didn’t see him.
He caught your gaze, like he always did, reading you like a datapad.
“What?” he asked softly.
You shook your head. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“Maybe in another life,” you said before you could stop yourself, “you and I would’ve had peace. Time. A place not drowning in war and death.”
His eyes darkened. “Maybe.”
You turned away, blinking fast. The next words came without permission. “I would’ve loved you, Fives. Fully. Properly. Without fear of losing you every time we touch ground.”
He was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Why not this life?”
Your breath caught. “Because this life isn’t made for love. Not for us.”
“It could be,” he said, voice raw. “If we fought for it. If we carved it out from the chaos.”
You looked at him, heart breaking. “You’d really risk everything?”
He leaned in, forehead brushing yours. “I already have.”
And then the comms cracked to life. New orders. Pull out. Another planet to bleed for. Another reason to bury the moment.
You both stood, back to war. No promises. No declarations. Just a look that said maybe—maybe in another life. But neither of you could help hoping:
Why not this one?
There was an unspoken tradition at the Coruscant Guard offices: the moment you showed up, coffee cups paused mid-air, datapads lowered, and someone inevitably muttered, "Oh look, she's still alive."
You strolled in two weeks late, absolutely glowing.
"Didn't know we were giving out extended vacations now," Trina said, her words clipped like a blaster bolt. "Maybe I should fake a spiritual awakening and disappear too."
You peeled off your sunglasses and smiled sweetly. "You should. Maybe they'll find your personality out there."
Snickers echoed through the hall.
Trina's eyes narrowed into twin black holes of corporate rage. "Commander Fox has been asking where you were."
That gave you the slightest pause. "Oh? Worried I was dead?"
She shrugged. "Or hoping."
You shot her a wink and breezed past, fully aware your hair looked too perfect for someone who just "found herself in nature."
---
Fox found you twenty minutes later, posted up at your desk with your boots on said desk, sipping caf and flipping through a holo-mag like someone who was not, in fact, two weeks behind on reports.
He stood silently at your side until you acknowledged him.
"Commander," you said brightly. "Miss me?"
"You disappeared. Again."
You looked up at him with the most innocent expression in the galaxy. "Went on a spiritual retreat."
He raised an eyebrow. "To where?"
"Kashyyyk. Hung out with some Wookiees. Meditated. Learned how to nap in trees."
Fox stared. You kept sipping your caf.
"They're big on inner peace," you added, deadpan. "Also, apparently I snore."
He didn't smile. But he also didn't press. Just that slow blink of his, the way his gaze lingered a little too long like he was cataloguing bruises or new scars.
"You weren't hurt?" he asked.
You softened. Just a little. "No, Commander. I wasn't hurt."
He nodded once and walked away.
*He cared.*
He'd never say it. But it was there.
---
Later that week, you returned from your mandatory ethics seminar—snoozefest—only to find your desk had been mysteriously moved... into the hallway.
Trina passed by with a smug little strut. "You missed a lot of meetings. We needed the space."
You leaned back in your new spot. "You know, if this is your way of flirting, I'm flattered."
"I'd rather kiss a Hutt."
You gasped. "Don't tempt me with a good time."
---
That night, you sang again at 79's. A slower set this time. Sadder. You weren't sure why—maybe something about Fox's voice that day still stuck with you.
And just like always... he was there.
Helmet off. Silent in the corner.
You sang to him without saying it. And when you left the club through the back again, this time you didn't get far before his voice stopped you.
"Wait."
You turned. "Following me again?"
He stepped closer. Not quite in your space. But close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.
"I thought something happened," he said quietly.
You swallowed. "Fox—"
"Next time, just tell someone."
You blinked. "Why?"
A long pause.
"Because if something *did* happen," he said, "I'd want to know."
And then, like he couldn't bear to say more, he turned and walked into the night.
You watched him go, heart tight, a laugh threatening to rise in your throat just to cover the way your chest ached.
Aurra Sing had said you were valuable.
Fox... made you feel seen.
And somewhere in the distance, under the glow of Coruscant's neon skyline, a shadow watched.
Waiting.
---
The next morning, your desk was still in the hallway.
Trina had redecorated the spot where it used to be with a potted plant and a framed motivational poster that read "Discipline Defines You." You were considering setting it on fire.
"Morning, Sunshine," you chirped as you walked past her with your caf. "How's the tyrannical dictatorship going?"
Trina didn't even flinch. "At least I show up for work."
"Oh, please. If you were a droid, you'd overheat from micromanaging."
And there it was—that smirk from the other assistant.
Kess.
She leaned over her desk like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. "Okay, okay, play nice, girls. It's not even second caf yet."
Trina rolled her eyes. "Pick a side, Kess."
Kess grinned. "I like the view from the middle."
You narrowed your eyes. "You said Trina once threatened to replace your shampoo with grease trap water."
"She was joking," Kess said quickly.
"I was not," Trina snapped.
"I mean... still better than your perfume," you added under your breath.
Kess audibly choked on her tea.
---
Later that day, Commander Fox called you into his office.
The tension in the room dropped the moment you stepped inside, replaced by something electric and quiet. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you like he was trying to decide if you were a puzzle or a headache.
"You vanished for two weeks," he finally said. "Now your overdue reports are two months overdue."
"I'll get to them," you said lightly, flopping into the chair opposite him. "Eventually."
Fox pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Also," you added, "Trina moved my desk into the hallway. Which I'm 80% sure is illegal."
"I'll talk to her."
You blinked. "You will?"
"She's not your superior."
A strange warmth bloomed in your chest. You masked it with sarcasm. "So chivalrous, Commander."
He gave you a look, one corner of his mouth twitching. "Just don't give me a reason to regret it."
---
That night at 79's the lights were low and your voice was velvet as you sang something slow and sultry. The bar was busy, but you spotted him—Fox, helmet off again, watching like he always did. Quiet. Unmoving. Yours, just for the length of a song.
You left through the back after your set, wrapping your coat tighter around yourself as the cool Coruscant air bit at your skin.
You didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
A hand slammed against the wall near your head, and a sharp voice coiled around you like a whip.
"Well, well. Songbirds off duty again."
Aurra Sing.
Her chalk-white skin shimmered in the streetlight, that deadly antenna gleaming above her forehead. She smiled without warmth.
"I've been watching you," she said. "You've got... potential."
You stepped back, heart hammering. "I'm not interested."
"No?" She clicked her tongue. "You work with the Guard. You're close with the Marshal Commander. You wander the galaxy without ever leaving a trace. I could use someone like that."
"I'm not a bounty hunter."
She leaned in closer, voice dropping. "Yet."
Your fingers twitched near your concealed weapon. Aurra's eyes flicked down and back, amused.
"Relax. I'm not here to kill you," she said. "Just... reminding you that people are watching. And not just me."
She melted back into the shadows before you could respond.
You stood alone in the alley, breath shaky, heart pounding.
You weren't scared.
But you were very, very awake.
---
The next morning, Trina took one look at you dragging yourself into work late with dark circles under your eyes and said, "Did the retreat monks kick you out for being annoying?"
Kess tried to stifle her laugh and failed.
You just smirked. "If you must know, I was nearly murdered by a galactic legend last night. What did *you* do, Trina? Color-code the caf pods again?"
Fox passed by just as you said it, pausing only to glance at you—an unreadable look in his eyes.
You gave him a half-smile.
He didn't return it.
But his hand twitched near his blaster.
He'd heard. And that meant he knew something was off.
You were starting to wonder if you were the one being watched… or the one being protected.
---
Summary: Your a friend of Jango Fett’s, he had asked you to come to Kamino to help train clone cadets, more specifically the cadets who were pre selected as commanders. Pre-Clone Wars. Pretty much just a love triangle between my fav clones. Bit angsty towards the end.
⸻
You hadn’t even wanted the job.
Kamino was cold, clinical, and crawling with wide-eyed clones who couldn’t shoot straight or punch worth a damn. But Jango had asked. And when Jango Fett asked, you didn’t exactly say no.
So, you found yourself here, drowning in rain and the hollow clatter of trooper boots on durasteel, overseeing the elite cadets being fast-tracked to become clone commanders.
They weren’t commanders yet. Not officially. But the Kaminoans had flagged a few standouts early—Fox, Wolffe, Cody, Bly, Neyo, Gree—and they were yours now.
Jango called them assets.
You called them projects.
Most of them respected you. Some feared you. And then there were those two.
Fox and Wolffe.
Walking disasters. Brilliant tacticians. Fiercely loyal. And completely, irredeemably idiotic when it came to you.
They’d been vying for your attention since day one—squabbling, sparring, brawling—and you’d brushed it off. Flirting wasn’t new to you. You knew how to shut it down. But these two? These two were stubborn. And clever. And just reckless enough to keep you on your toes.
You stood now at the edge of one of the open training rings, arms folded, T-visor reflecting a dozen cadets going through various drills. Cody was holding his own in a two-on-one blaster sim. Bly was shouting orders like he thought he owned the place. Gree was crouched in the mud, recalibrating his training rifle mid-drill.
But your eyes were on Fox and Wolffe, again.
They were arguing by the supply crates, the tension between them so thick it might’ve passed as heat if Kamino weren’t freezing.
“I’m telling you,” Wolffe was growling, “she was talking to me yesterday.”
“Right,” Fox drawled. “She called you ‘uncoordinated and overconfident.’ Sounds like flirting to me.”
“You don’t get it, she’s Mandalorian. That’s basically a compliment.”
“Boys.” Your voice sliced through the rain like a vibroblade.
They both snapped to attention so fast they nearly knocked heads.
“Get in the ring.” You didn’t even raise your voice. “Now.”
Fox and Wolffe exchanged a look—equal parts dread and defiance.
“Yes, instructor,” they muttered.
“I want five laps if either of you so much as winks.”
You tossed a training staff toward Fox. He caught it clumsily and frowned. “What, no sim?”
“Nope. You’re with me.”
Somewhere behind you, you heard Bly mutter, “He’s dead.”
“Pay attention to your drill, cadet,” you barked.
Fox stepped into the ring with the same confidence he wore into every disaster. “Try not to go easy on me, yeah?”
You didn’t dignify that with a response.
The fight started fast. Fox was quick, smooth, used his weight well—but you’d trained on Sundari’s cliffs, in Death Watch gauntlets, and in the company of monsters who made even Jango look tame.
Fox didn’t stand a chance.
He lasted maybe three minutes before you dropped him with a shoulder feint and a sweep that sent him crashing into the mat.
“Dead,” you said flatly, planting your boot on his chest.
Fox groaned. “You always this brutal with your favorites?”
“You’re not my favorite.”
“Oof.”
Then—Wolffe shoved past the other cadets and stepped into the ring.
“That’s enough,” he said, voice tight. “He’s training, not being punished.”
You cocked your head. “You volunteering?”
“I’m not letting you flatten my brother without a fight.”
You smirked behind the visor. “Your funeral.”
What followed was nothing short of combat comedy.
Wolffe was sharper than Fox. Calculated. But he was still a cadet. You pushed him hard—Mando-style, merciless, unrelenting. Rain slicked the mat, thunder cracked outside, and your staff never slowed.
Wolffe held his own longer.
But he was still losing.
Then, desperate—he lunged.
And bit you.
Right on the bicep.
“Kriffing—”
You staggered back, jerking your arm away, teeth clenching as the pain bloomed under your armor.
“Did you just—did you bite me?!”
Wolffe, still crouched and panting, looked horrified. “You weren’t stopping!”
Fox, flat on his back, howled with laughter. “You feral loth-cat! What, was headbutting too civilized?”
You peeled your glove off and stared at the bite. “You drew blood,” you growled. “I liked this undersuit.”
“Instinct,” Wolffe muttered.
“Idiot,” you shot back.
By now, the other cadets had gathered around the ring, wide-eyed and whispering. You turned slowly to the group.
“Let this be a lesson. I don’t care if you’re a cadet, a commander, or kriffing Supreme Chancellor himself—if you bite me, I bite back.”
Fox wheezed. “She’s not joking. I’ve seen her take out two bounty hunters with a broken fork.”
You jabbed a finger at him. “Fifteen laps, Fox. For running your mouth.”
Fox dragged himself upright and groaned, limping toward the track.
Wolffe started to follow.
You grabbed his pauldron.
“Don’t ever use your teeth in a fight again, unless you’re actually dying.”
“Yes, instructor.”
“…And next time, if you are gonna bite, aim higher.”
He blinked.
And you walked off, bleeding, storming, and already plotting their next humiliation.
Commanders?
Kriff.
They were barely house-trained.
⸻
The morning after the Bite Incident started like most—grey skies, howling wind, and Kaminoan side-eyes.
You strode onto the training deck in full gear, fresh bandage wrapped over the healing bite mark on your arm. The clones were already lined up, posture rigid, eyes straight. You could feel the tension radiating from the group like a bad smell. No doubt they’d all heard the rumors.
One of them bit you. And lived.
You stopped in front of them, hands behind your back. “Which of you thought it was smart to bet on me losing?”
Half the group tensed. Cody coughed.
You didn’t wait for an answer. “Double rations go to the one who bet I’d win and that one of you idiots would end up chewing on my armor.”
That got a chuckle—nervous, brief—but it broke the tension. Good. You weren’t here to baby them. You were here to make them legends.
“Group drills today. Partner up.”
Predictably, Fox beelined for your side. “So. How’s the arm?” he asked, lips twitching.
You turned slightly, giving him just enough of a smirk. “Tender. Wanna kiss it better?”
Fox visibly froze. For the first time in all the months you’d trained him, he blinked like a man who’d just taken a thermal detonator to the soul.
Wolffe, watching from across the training floor, snapped his training blade in half.
Like, literally snapped it.
You didn’t even react.
Cody whistled low. “He’s gonna kill someone.”
“Hope it’s not me,” Fox muttered under his breath, heart rate visibly climbing.
You raised your voice. “Wolffe. Grab a new blade and meet me in the ring. Fox, go help Gree with his stance. The last time I saw someone hold a blaster like that, they were five and trying to eat it.”
Fox, now flustered beyond recognition, stumbled off. Wolffe stalked over, eyes dark.
“You flirting with him now?” he asked, low and sharp, as you passed him a fresh blade.
You leaned in—just close enough for your voice to dip like smoke. “He flirted first.”
“And you flirted back.”
You tilted your head. “You gonna bite me again if I do it twice?”
Wolffe looked like he might combust.
The spar started aggressive—Wolffe striking fast, sharp, his technique tighter than usual, anger giving him extra momentum. You blocked him easily, letting him wear himself out. Letting him stew.
“Jealousy looks good on you,” you taunted, hooking his leg mid-swing and sweeping him to the mat with a sharp twist.
He landed with a grunt, breathless. You knelt beside him, blade tip pressed to his chestplate.
“I flirt with the one who keeps his teeth to himself,” you said, tone casual. “Consider that motivation.”
Wolffe didn’t answer. He just stared at you, cheeks flushed, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear it grinding through the floor.
By the time drills ended, Fox was glowing. Wolffe was feral. And you?
You were thriving.
Let them fight over you. Let them stew, and sulk, and throw punches at each other behind the mess hall.
This was war training. They’d better get used to losing battles.
Especially the ones with their own hearts.
⸻
You were late.
Not tactically late. Intentionally late.
The cadets were already lined up, soaked to the bone from outdoor drills—Kamino’s rain coming in sideways like daggers. You made your entrance like a storm, dripping wet and smirking like you hadn’t made half the room lose sleep last night.
Fox was waiting at the front, eyes locked on you. He didn’t salute. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked—calm, steady, sharp.
And you felt it. That shift.
Wolffe was off to the side, glaring holes into the back of Fox’s head. You caught it all in a sweep of your gaze.
“Who wants a live-spar match to start the morning?” you called.
Several cadets groaned. Cody actually muttered something about defecting to Kaminoan administration.
But Fox? Fox stepped forward. “I do.”
You tilted your head. “Sure you want that smoke, pretty boy?”
He smiled, slow and dangerous. “You think I didn’t train for this?”
You narrowed your eyes, intrigued.
The match was brutal. Not because Fox was stronger—but because Fox was different. Controlled. Confident. Calculated. He didn’t let your taunts shake him. He dodged quicker, pushed harder. When he caught your leg and sent you crashing to the mat, the cadets gasped.
Even Wolffe made a strangled noise like a dying animal.
You coughed, winded, pinned under Fox’s knee, his hand resting against your collarbone.
“Yield?” he asked.
You blinked up at him. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Already did,” he said, low enough for only you to hear. “You like it.”
You shoved him off you with a grin, rolling to your feet.
“Not bad,” you admitted. “But I’m still prettier.”
Fox actually laughed.
Wolffe walked off the mat.
Straight to the armory.
Because of course he did.
Later, when the others had cleared out and you were wiping sweat from your brow, you felt that familiar weight behind you—boots heavier than a clone’s, presence impossible to ignore.
“Jango,” you greeted, not turning.
“You’re playing with them.”
You wiped your blade clean. “I’m training them.”
“You’re toying with them,” he said, voice flat. “They’re assets. Not toys. Not lovers. Not soldiers you can break for fun.”
You turned, arching a brow. “I know the difference between a weapon and a man, Fett.”
He stepped closer. “Then stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”
That one hit—low and sharp.
You swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. “They’re soldiers, Jango. If a little heartbreak cracks them, the war will kill them faster.”
“They need guidance. Not confusion.”
“And what about me?” you asked, arms crossing. “What do I need?”
His eyes didn’t soften. “You need to choose. Or leave them both alone.”
You didn’t answer.
He left you with the silence.
That night, you found Fox alone in the mess, bruised, hungry, and tired.
“You did good today,” you said quietly.
He didn’t look up from his tray. “So did you. Playing with me until Wolffe snapped?”
“Wolffe snapped because he thinks I’m yours.”
Fox looked up now, slow and dangerous. “Are you?”
You leaned in. Close. Almost touching. “I could be.”
Fox’s jaw clenched. “Then stop making him think he has a chance.”
You didn’t reply.
Not right away.
And that pause? That breath of hesitation?
That was the crack in everything.
⸻
You stopped showing up to the mess.
You didn’t call on Fox or Wolffe for sparring. You rotated them into group drills only. You stopped lingering after hours. No more teasing remarks. No more slow smirks and heat behind your eyes.
No more touch.
It was easier, at first. For you.
They were cadets. Not yours. Not meant to be anything more.
Jango’s voice echoed every time you started to second-guess yourself.
“Stop pulling the trigger when you don’t mean to shoot.”
So you holstered your weapon. Locked the fire down. Played it straight.
And watched them start to unravel.
Fox was the first to try and confront you.
He caught you in the hallway outside the training rooms. Quiet, calm, alone.
“You ignoring me on purpose?” he asked, voice low.
You didn’t stop walking. “You’re a soldier. I’m your instructor. That’s all.”
Fox stepped in front of you, blocking your path.
“So that was all it ever was? The fights? The flirting? Me on top of you on the mat?” His voice cracked slightly at the end, despite his best efforts.
You looked at him, jaw tight. “Fox—”
He laughed. Bitter. “No. Say it. Say it meant nothing.”
You couldn’t.
And that was the problem.
“It’s better this way,” you said instead, and slipped past him.
He let you go.
That was what broke your heart most of all.
Wolffe was worse. He didn’t say anything—at first.
He trained harder. Fought rougher. Every drill was a warzone now. He snapped at Cody. Nearly dislocated Gree’s shoulder. Wouldn’t meet your eyes. Until one night—
You caught him in the dark on the training deck, punching into a bag like it owed him his life.
“Wolffe.”
He didn’t stop.
“I said, stand down—”
He spun on you.
“Why?” he snapped. “So you can ignore me again?”
You froze.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he growled. “You pulled away from both of us. Playing professional like you weren’t the one making Fox look like a damn lovesick cadet. Like you weren’t the one making me feel like I was yours.”
Your chest tightened. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Yes, it was!” he shouted. “And now you think pulling back fixes it? You think it makes the want go away?”
You opened your mouth to reply, but Wolffe stepped forward, eyes burning.
“Let me make it real easy for you,” he said. “If you didn’t mean any of it—tell me you never wanted me. Say it.”
You couldn’t.
You didn’t.
You just turned and walked away.
Again.
And behind you, in the dead silence of the deck, you heard something break.
⸻
They started showing off.
It wasn’t even subtle.
Fox perfected his bladework, spinning twin vibroknives in a blur, always training just where you could see. Wolffe started calling out cadets for slacking mid-drill, standing straighter, yelling louder, fighting longer.
Every time you passed, there was tension—tight like a wire, straining.
And you kept pushing.
Harder, faster drills. No breaks. No leniency. You called them out in front of the others when they slipped. You sent them against each other in spar after spar, knowing they’d go all out.
They did.
Until Fox went down hard—breathing ragged, cut bleeding at his brow, fingers trembling.
And you snapped: “Get up. Again.”
He looked at you. Not angry. Not sad. Just tired.
Wolffe stepped between you before Fox could even move.
“No.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I said no,” Wolffe growled. “He’s bleeding. He’s exhausted. He’s not a toy you wind up just to see how far he’ll go.”
“This is training—”
“This is punishment,” Fox cut in, standing up slow behind Wolffe. “And we’re done letting you use us to beat your own feelings into the ground.”
The silence that followed hit harder than a punch.
You looked at both of them—Wolffe, tense and furious, jaw clenched; Fox, bleeding but still looking at you like he cared.
“You think this is about feelings?” you spat. “I’m preparing you for war. You’re not ready.”
“We were,” Wolffe said quietly. “Until you made yourself the battle.”
That hit you straight in the ribs.
You stared at them, breathing hard, adrenaline high, rage burning under your skin—and then you turned away.
“Training’s over,” you muttered.
Neither of them moved.
When you left the room, they didn’t follow.
And for the first time since setting foot on Kamino, you realized what losing both of them might actually feel like.
⸻
The sky on Kamino never changed.
Just endless grey. Rain like a drumbeat. A constant hum of sterile light and controlled air.
You stood at the edge of the landing platform, your gear packed, your armor slung over your shoulder like it didn’t weigh a hundred kilos in your gut.
“I thought you were done bounty hunting,” Jango said behind you.
You didn’t turn.
“I thought I was too.”
He walked up beside you, slow and even. No judgment in his stride. No comfort either.
“They got to you,” he said.
You didn’t answer.
“They’re good soldiers. You saw that. You made them better. You drilled discipline into their bones.” A pause. “So why run?”
You clenched your jaw.
“Because I stopped seeing them as soldiers,” you muttered. “I started seeing them as—”
You broke off. Not because you didn’t know the word. But because it hurt too much to say it.
Jango sighed. “I told you not to toy with the assets.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You flirted. You made them think—”
“I didn’t make them think anything,” you snapped, turning to him finally. “I felt something. I didn’t mean to. But I did. And now it’s bleeding into training and—” your voice cracked. “They’re getting hurt.”
Jango looked at you for a long, quiet second.
Then, almost gently: “You never had the stomach for clean lines. You’re too human for that.”
You laughed bitterly. “Maybe. But I won’t be the reason they break.”
Jango gave you a nod. Subtle. Approval, maybe. Or just understanding. He turned to leave, boots echoing on the wet metal.
“Where will you go?” he asked over his shoulder.
You looked back out at the grey sea. Thought of neon lights. Cold bounties. Silence without faces you cared about.
“Somewhere I don’t have to see their eyes.”
Jango didn’t say goodbye.
He never did.
And when your ship lifted off, you didn’t look back.
⸻
The cadets lined up in silence.
There was tension in the air. They could feel it—like a shift in pressure right before a storm hits.
Wolffe had a sick feeling crawling up his spine. Fox had barely spoken all morning.
You hadn’t shown up for dawn drills. Again.
Then the door opened.
Boots. Not yours.
Jango Fett strode in—full beskar, helmet tucked under his arm, scowl like a thunderhead.
Every cadet stiffened.
“Form up,” he barked.
The lines straightened immediately. But all eyes were looking past him—waiting.
Wolffe’s voice cut through the stillness.
“Where’s our instructor?”
Jango’s lip curled slightly. “Gone.”
Fox frowned. “Gone where?”
Jango stared them down.
“She left Kamino. She won’t be returning.”
Just like that.
Silence exploded across the room.
Wolffe’s fists clenched.
Fox’s mouth opened—then closed. His jaw locked.
“She didn’t say goodbye,” Neyo whispered.
Jango looked at them like they were stupid.
“She didn’t need to.”
No one breathed.
Then Jango paced in front of them, slow and deliberate.
“You were here to be trained to lead men in battle. Not to fall for someone who made you feel special. You don’t get attachments. You don’t get comfort. You get orders. Understand?”
No one answered.
Jango stepped closer to Wolffe, then Fox, his voice low and cold.
“She gave you the best of her and got out before you ruined it. Don’t make the mistake of chasing ghosts.”
And with that—he barked for drills to begin.
They ran until their lungs burned, until every cadet dropped to their knees from exhaustion. Jango didn’t ease up once.
Wolffe didn’t speak the entire time.
Fox trained like he wanted the pain.
And no matter how hard they hit, how fast they moved, how sharp they became—
You didn’t come back.
⸻
The job was supposed to be clean.
A simple retrieval on Xeron V—a mid-tier Republic contractor gone rogue, hiding in the crumbling husk of an old droid factory. Get in, grab the target, drag him to a shadowy contact with credits to burn and questionable allegiance.
But you should’ve known better.
The second you got your hands on him, everything went sideways. Someone tipped off the Republic. Gunships rained from the sky. Your target fled. You got cut off. Cornered.
And then the unmistakable howl of clone comms filled the air.
The 104th.
You almost laughed when you saw the markings—gray trim, wolf symbols, bold and sharp.
Fate had a sick sense of humor.
You were disarmed in seconds, pinned to the floor with your cheek pressed against cold durasteel.
Even then, you didn’t fight.
Wolffe was the one who yanked off your helmet.
You expected a reaction.
All you got was silence.
Not even a curse. Not even your name.
Just a stiff order to “secure the bounty hunter” and a curt nod to the troopers flanking you.
And then he walked away.
Like you were nothing.
Now you sat in the Republic outpost’s holding cell, bruised but mostly fine—aside from your ego and whatever parts of your heart still hadn’t gone numb. The armor plating of your new life, as a notorious bounty hunter, felt thinner by the second.
He hadn’t even looked you in the eye since they dragged you off the ship.
Not when you spat blood onto the hangar floor.
Not when they clamped the cuffs on your wrists.
Not when your helmet rolled to his feet like some ghost from a forgotten life.
Just protocol. Just silence.
Just Wolffe.
Outside the cell, Master Plo Koon approached his commander, his quiet presence always felt before it was seen.
“She knew your name,” Plo said gently.
Wolffe’s armor flexed as his fists curled. “She trained us. All of us. Before the war.”
“But there is more, isn’t there?”
Wolffe glanced sideways. “Sir, with respect—”
“I am not scolding you, Wolffe.” Plo’s voice remained steady. “But I sense a storm in you. I have since the moment she arrived.”
Wolffe said nothing.
“She left something behind, didn’t she?”
And for just a second, Wolffe’s mask cracked.
“Yeah,” he said, jaw tight. “Us.”
⸻
The hum of the gunship in hyperspace filled the silence between you.
You were cuffed to a seat, armor stripped down to a flight-safe bodysuit. Your posture was relaxed, but your gaze never left the clone across from you.
Wolffe sat still—helmet in his lap, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hadn’t spoken since takeoff.
“You gonna give me the silent treatment the whole way?” you asked, voice dry.
He didn’t even blink.
You sighed and leaned back, jaw clenching. “Fine. I’ll do the talking.”
No response.
“I didn’t think they’d make you my escort,” you continued. “You’d think after our history, that might be considered a conflict of interest.”
“Maybe they thought I’d shoot you if you acted up,” he muttered.
You smirked. “I thought about acting up. Just to see if you still care.”
That got him.
His head snapped toward you, eyes burning. “Don’t.”
“What? Push your buttons?” You arched a brow. “That used to be my specialty.”
“You used to be someone else.”
The smile dropped from your lips.
So did your heart.
Wolffe looked away again, tightening his grip on the helmet in his hands.
You turned your head toward the window, hiding the sting behind sarcasm. “You look good in Commander stripes.”
“And you look good in chains.”
There it was again—that damn tension. Sharp and unresolved. You almost welcomed the sting.
Almost.
⸻
Coruscant.
The gunship touched down in the GAR security hangar. Sterile, bright, swarming with guards in crimson-red armor.
You knew who ran this show before you even stepped off the ramp.
Fox.
The last time you saw him, he was still a smart-ass cadet fighting over who could land a blow on you first.
Now?
He wore the rank of Marshal Commander like a second skin. Polished. Cold. Untouchable.
The second your boots hit the durasteel, he was there.
“Prisoner in my custody,” he said to Wolffe, not even sparing you a glance.
“She’s your problem now,” Wolffe replied, handing over the datapad.
You smirked. “Nice armor, Foxy. Didn’t think you’d climb so high.”
He didn’t even blink.
“No jokes. No names. You’re not special anymore.”
The smile dropped off your face like a blade.
“I see the Senate really squeezed all the fun out of you.”
Fox stepped in close, nose-to-nose. “That bounty you botched? Republic senator’s aide was caught in the crossfire. He’s still in critical care.”
Your mouth opened, but he kept going.
“You may think you’re the same snarky Mandalorian who used to throw cadets around on Kamino. But you’re not. You’re a liability with a kill count—and you’re lucky we didn’t shoot you on sight.”
You swallowed hard.
Wolffe stood off to the side, helmet tucked under one arm, watching. Quiet. Controlled.
But his gaze never left your face.
Fox turned to his men. “Take her to holding. I’ll debrief in an hour.”
You were grabbed by the arms again, dragged off without ceremony. As you passed Wolffe, your eyes met just for a second.
You opened your mouth to say something—anything.
But Wolffe looked away first.
And this time, it hurt worse than anything else ever had.
The room was cold. Not physically—just sterile. Void of anything human.
One table. Two chairs. Transparent durasteel wall behind you.
And Fox, across the table, red armor like a warning light that never shut off.
He hadn’t said a word yet.
Just stood in the doorway, datapad in hand, watching you like he was trying to decide whether to question you or put a bolt in your head.
Finally, he sat down.
“You’re in a lot of trouble.”
You leaned back in the chair, manacled wrists resting against the tabletop. “Let me guess. That senator’s aide I accidentally shot was someone’s nephew?”
Fox didn’t flinch. “You’re lucky he’s not dead.”
“I’m lucky all the time.”
He stared you down. “Tell me why you took the job.”
You rolled your eyes. “Credits.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the truth.”
His fingers tapped against the datapad. A slow, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the silence.
“Target was mid-level intel—why would someone like you take a low-rank job like that?”
“I don’t screen my clients. I don’t ask questions.”
He leaned forward slightly. “You used to.”
You stilled.
There it was. The first crack.
“Back on Kamino,” he added, voice quieter. “You asked questions. You gave a damn.”
You looked away. “That was a long time ago.”
Fox’s jaw tightened. “Then help me understand what changed.”
You laughed once, bitter. “Why, Fox? This isn’t an interrogation. This is you trying to pick apart what’s left of someone you used to know.”
“No,” he said, too quickly. “This is me trying to figure out whether the person I used to trust is still in there.”
Your gaze snapped to his.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t break.
But you saw it.
That same flicker he used to show you, late in training when he couldn’t hide how much he hung on every word you said. That look when he fought with Wolffe over who got to spar with you first. That silence after you left Kamino without saying goodbye.
“I trained you to be a good soldier,” you muttered. “Not to sit behind a desk and spit Senate lines.”
“I became a good soldier because of you,” he shot back. “But you left before you could see it.”
Silence settled again.
He dropped the datapad to the table and leaned back in his chair. “Do you even care who you’re working for these days?”
You smirked, tired. “You want me to say I regret it. But I don’t think you’d believe me if I did.”
Fox stood abruptly. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
He moved to leave—then hesitated, fingers flexing at his side. He looked back once, gaze sharp and unreadable.
“We’re not done.”
You lifted your brow. “Didn’t think we were.”
He stared at you another heartbeat longer.
Then left.
The door hissed closed behind him.
And still, his questions lingered.
⸻
It was past midnight, but Coruscant never slept.
The holding cell lights were dim, humming faintly above your head. You sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on your knees, staring through the thick transparisteel wall like you could still see stars.
Your wrists ached from the manacles.
Your chest ached from everything else.
When the door hissed open, you didn’t look.
You already knew who it was.
He stepped inside, slow and careful—like maybe if he moved too quickly, he’d change his mind and leave.
“Didn’t expect to see you again,” you said quietly.
“I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Figured.”
You turned your head. Wolffe was still in full armor, helmet off, but the tension in his shoulders was more than battlefield wear.
He stepped closer but didn’t sit. He just looked at you. Like he hadn’t had the chance to really see you until now.
“You really left,” he said.
You huffed a breath. “You mean Kamino?”
He nodded once.
“Jango warned me,” you said. “Told me not to mess with the assets.”
His jaw clenched. “You weren’t messing with us.”
“Weren’t I?”
Wolffe looked down, quiet for a moment. Then:
“We would’ve followed you anywhere.”
The silence between you cracked open—raw, vulnerable.
“I couldn’t stay,” you whispered. “Not after that. Not when I knew I was screwing with your heads. You and Fox were fighting over a ghost. I was your first crush, not your future.”
“You were more than that.”
“No,” you said gently. “I was just the one who got away.”
Wolffe looked like he wanted to argue. Wanted to reach out. But he stayed exactly where he was, arms stiff at his sides.
“You’re going to be court-martialed,” you said with a dry smile. “Visiting the prisoner. Real scandal.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do. You always did. That’s what made you a good soldier.”
He didn’t reply to that. Just let the silence stretch.
Finally, you asked, “So what happens now?”
Wolffe’s eyes hardened—not cold, but braced. “You’re staying. Senate wants answers. GAR wants a scapegoat.”
“And you?”
“I want—”
He stopped himself.
You sat up straighter. “Say it.”
He exhaled, jaw flexing, voice low. “I want you to walk out of here. I want you on my squad, back where you belong. I want to forget you ever left.”
You didn’t look away.
“I want to stop wondering if we ever meant anything to you.”
You stepped toward the barrier between you.
Then the comm in his vambrace flared to life.
“—Commander Wolffe, this is General Koon. We’re wheels up in five. Rendezvous at Pad D-17.”
He didn’t answer it. Just looked at you.
“I guess that’s your cue,” you said, trying to smile. “Duty first.”
“Always.”
But this time, he didn’t move.
He just stared at you like maybe—just maybe—he’d stay.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you said. “I made my bed. I’ll lie in it.”
He nodded slowly. “You always did sleep like hell anyway.”
You laughed once. It hurt.
“I’ll see you again,” he said finally.
“You sure about that?”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
Another call came through. Urgent.
He stepped back, slow, deliberate, like every footfall cost him.
You stood alone behind the transparisteel wall.
And he left without another word.
Because he was a commander.
And you were the one who got away.
Warnings: Injury, emotional vulnerability, PTSD, heavy angst, post-war trauma.
⸻
You’d found the distress signal by accident.
A flicker on a broken console. Weak. Nearly buried under layers of static, bouncing endlessly off dead satellites like a ghost signal. Most people wouldn’t have noticed it.
But you weren’t most people.
And the frequency?
It was clone code.
You tracked it to a crumbling outpost on a desolate moon—half buried in dust storms, long abandoned by the Republic, forgotten by the Empire.
Your ship touched down rough. You didn’t wait for the storm to pass. You ran.
And then you heard him.
At first, it was just static. Then faint words bled through the interference—raspy, broken, desperate.
“Hello?…This is CT-7567…Rex…please—”
Static.
“…can’t…move…legs—I need—”
More static. Then a choked, cracking breath.
“I don’t wanna die like this…”
Your heart stopped.
You sprinted through the busted corridors, blaster drawn, shouting his name.
“Rex!”
Then you heard it.
Closer now.
“Please…somebody…I—”
His voice was barely human—childlike, even. Like pain had stripped away all the command, all the strength, all the control he used to wear like armor.
And finally—you found him.
Pinned beneath collapsed durasteel. Blood everywhere. One leg crushed, helmet off, face pale with shock and dirt. His chestplate was cracked straight through.
His eyes were glassy. He didn’t see you yet.
“Help…help…please…Jesse…Kic…Fives—” His voice cracked. “…Anakin?”
Your heart shattered.
You dropped your blaster and knelt beside him. “Rex—Rex, it’s me.”
His eyes flicked toward you, unfocused. “Y-you’re not…I can’t…I c-can’t feel my legs…”
You cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
His fingers twitched like he was trying to reach for you. “D-don’t leave. Please…don’t leave me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, throat tight. “You’re safe now. Just hold on.”
Tears blurred your vision as you started clearing the debris, carefully, trying not to make it worse. He winced, hissed, bit down a scream.
“Hurts…”
“I know. I know, Rex. I’ve got you.”
You triggered your comm for evac, barely holding it together. Your hands were shaking. You’d never seen him like this. Not Rex. Not your Rex.
He had always been the strong one. The steady one. The soldier who stood when everyone else fell.
But now?
Now he was just a man.
Bleeding. Scared. Alone.
You gathered him into your arms when the debris was off, whispering to him over and over—“I’ve got you, I’ve got you”—like a lifeline. His blood soaked your jacket, but you didn’t care. He buried his face against your shoulder, barely conscious.
“I—I thought I was dead,” he mumbled. “I kept calling…no one came…no one came…”
You closed your eyes.
“Well, I did,” you whispered into his hair. “I came for you.”
⸻
He woke up in pieces.
A white ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A faint hum of low-grade shielding. The dull, distant pain in his leg—muted by the good stuff, but still there.
And your voice.
He could hear you before he could turn his head.
“I know you’re awake, Rex.”
He blinked. You were sitting beside his cot, reading something, legs pulled up under you, soft shirt half-wrinkled. You looked like you hadn’t slept much. He hated that.
“How long?”
“Three days since I found you. Two since the surgery. You’ve been in and out.”
He nodded, slowly. “You… stayed.”
You closed your book. “Of course I did.”
He turned his head away from you. “You shouldn’t have.”
There was no heat in it. No real push. Just… guilt.
You didn’t answer at first. You watched his hands—trembling slightly, like they were remembering something he hadn’t said out loud yet.
Rex had always been good at holding the line. At being unshakable. Calm. Controlled.
But he wasn’t now.
He was tired. The kind of tired that lives under your skin. That no bacta tank or stim shot can fix.
“I called for them,” he said suddenly. Quiet. His voice hollow.
You said nothing. Let him go on.
“I thought I was going to die. I was calling for people who’ve been dead for years. I knew they were dead. But I kept saying their names.”
You reached for his hand.
He didn’t pull away.
“I heard your voice last,” he whispered. “And I thought… maybe I was already gone.”
“You’re not.”
He nodded again. Then after a pause—“Maybe I should be.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m not… I don’t know who I am anymore,” he continued. “The war’s over. The men are scattered. My brothers are dead or… worse. I spent years holding it all together and now it’s all just—”
He clenched his jaw. “Gone.”
You rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.
“Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m still on Umbara,” he said after a long moment. “Other times I forget Fives is gone. Or Jesse. And then it hits me again. And again. And it’s like dying over and over.”
You got up slowly, sitting on the edge of the cot, so close your knees brushed.
“You’re still here, Rex. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”
He looked at you then.
Really looked at you.
You, with sleep-deprived eyes and your voice so soft it made something inside him tremble. You, who found him when no one else was listening. You, who stayed.
His voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let go of it.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once. Not even forever. But maybe… just for tonight?”
You slid beside him, gently, until his head could rest against your shoulder.
He was shaking.
It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.
You wrapped your arm around him.
He didn’t say anything after that.
He didn’t need to.
⸻
Later, long after he fell asleep—finally at peace for the first time in years—you whispered against his temple:
“I came for you, Rex. I’ll always come for you.”
And you stayed, holding him through the silence, while the storm raged somewhere far away.
He was covered in blood the first time you saw him.
Not his. Probably not even human. You weren’t sure. You were just a bartender on Ord Mantell, working a hole-in-the-wall bar tucked under the crumbling skeleton of an old shipping yard, where the lights flickered and the rain never really stopped.
The kind of place where soldiers came to disappear and drifters stopped pretending to care.
But Sev?
He didn’t disappear.
He stood out.
He ordered without hesitation. “Whiskey. Real if you’ve got it. Synthetic if you want me to break something.”
You gave him the real stuff. Poured it slow, hand steady, even though he looked like he’d just torn his way through a war zone.
“Rough night?” you asked.
Sev stared at the glass. “What night isn’t?”
Then he downed it and left.
That was six months ago.
Since then, Delta Squad had started showing up after ops in the sector. You figured they had something black ops going on nearby—classified runs, deep infiltration, the kind that turned good soldiers into ghosts.
Scorch always laughed too loud. Fixer looked like he’d short-circuit if someone tried to talk to him. Boss barely said a word unless someone needed shutting down.
But Sev?
He watched you.
Always from the shadows. Always with those eyes—like he was cataloguing your movements, weighing them against something dark he couldn’t explain.
Tonight, it was just him.
Rain pounded on the rooftop. Rust leaked down the walls. A dying holosign outside buzzed like it was gasping for breath. Sev sat at the bar, hunched forward, a smear of something red on the side of his gauntlet.
Armor scratched. Helmet off. Blood on his knuckles.
“Was it bad?” you asked.
He didn’t look at you. “They always scream. Doesn’t matter who they are.”
You paused, a bottle in hand. “You okay?”
He let out a dry laugh. “You always ask that like it’s a real question.”
You leaned forward. “And you always answer like you’re not human.”
That got his attention. He looked at you now—eyes sharp, dark. “You think I’m human?”
“I think you bleed like one,” you said. “And drink like one. And come back here like you’re looking for something.”
He stared at you. Hard. Like he was daring you to flinch. You didn’t.
Finally, he said, “I don’t know why I come back here.”
You leaned your arms on the bar. “Maybe you’re tired of being a weapon.”
His jaw flexed. That was too close to the bone.
“I was made to kill,” he muttered.
“But that’s not all you are.”
He shook his head. “You don’t get it. None of you civvies do. You think we’re heroes. Soldiers. Whatever karking fairytale makes you sleep better at night. But out there? We’re rats in a cage. Dying for people who forget our names the second the war ends.”
You didn’t move.
Then softly, you said, “I don’t forget yours.”
Sev blinked. Slow. Like the words caught him off guard and hit something he didn’t realize was still bleeding.
You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his wrist. His arm was tense under the armor, coiled like a trap—but he didn’t pull away.
“You scare me,” you admitted.
He looked down at your hand. “Good. You should be scared of people like me.”
“But I’m not,” you whispered. “Not really.”
Silence.
Then Sev stood. Close. Too close. His breath was hot against your cheek. You could smell the blood, the dust, the war that never seemed to leave his skin.
“Why?” he asked, voice low and frayed. “Why the hell not?”
You met his eyes.
“Because even rats deserve to be free.”
He didn’t kiss you.
He just stared like he didn’t know what to do with the feeling rising in his chest. Like you’d opened a door he thought was welded shut.
Then he leaned in—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, rough and desperate—and for a second, he breathed.
⸻
The cantina flickered with low, golden light. One of those places where time didn’t move right—where music played like a memory, and everyone spoke a little softer after dark.
You sat on the edge of a cracked booth, legs stretched, nursing a cheap drink you weren’t really drinking. Your armor was off, your hair a mess, and there was still grime on your hands from the skirmish earlier that day. You should’ve been back at the ship, cleaning up or passing out. But you weren’t.
Because he was still here.
Hunter leaned against the bar, arms crossed, talking quietly to the bartender. His bandana was off for once, letting those wild curls fall free around his face. He looked tired—always did—but he still stood like he carried the weight of everyone else’s safety before his own. That kind of burden was its own kind of beauty.
You didn’t realize you were staring until he turned and caught you.
He didn’t look away.
Neither did you.
Eventually, he walked over. Sat across from you without asking, sliding into the cracked booth like it had always been meant for two.
“You okay?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Still got all my limbs.”
He smirked. “That’s a start.”
You studied him under the flickering cantina lights. He was always so composed in battle, so sharp, so focused. But like this, up close and quiet, there was something softer behind his eyes. Something a little tired. A little lonely.
“You’re always looking after everyone else,” you said suddenly, voice low. “Who looks after you?”
Hunter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He looked down, then back at you with a small, dry laugh. “You know… I don’t really think about it.”
“You should.”
You reached out and brushed a thumb across his knuckles—just once, just enough.
He didn’t flinch.
“You’re good looking when you’re not pretending to be indestructible,” you murmured. The words slipped out like a secret.
Hunter tilted his head, smile crooked, eyes watching you like he was trying to decide if he was dreaming or if he just hadn’t let himself want this before.
“You’ve been drinking,” he said.
You held his gaze. “A little. But I’d say it sober.”
He leaned forward, forearms on the table, his voice low and gravelly. “Then say it again.”
You felt your breath hitch, just a little.
“You’re good looking, Hunter,” you said. “But I think I like you even more when you let yourself feel.”
A beat passed. Two. He looked down at your hand, still near his. Then he reached for it—gently, carefully, like something fragile in a war-torn world.
“I think I feel too much when I’m around you,” he said. “And that scares me more than battle ever could.”
You didn’t answer. Just let the silence sit between you—heavy, intimate, real.
The music kept playing. The world outside kept spinning. But for now, it was just the two of you, sitting across from each other like the war had paused. Like the night belonged to people who’d been scarred, and tired, and still dared to want something more.
Warnings: inner conflict, Dark Side temptation, brief mentions of violence and war. Inspired by the song “meet me in the woods” by Lord Huron
⸻
The war had changed you.
You could feel it in the way your saber moved—too fast, too forceful. You felt it in your voice, now lower, sharper when giving orders. And you felt it in the way the Force wrapped around you lately—not like a comforting current, but a rising tide, dark and deep.
You hadn’t meditated in days.
You didn’t want to.
Instead, you wandered into the woods after the battle, far from the bodies, the smoldering tanks, and the smothering weight of Republic victory. The trees here were ancient and gnarled, the canopy so thick that the light barely broke through. It felt like walking into another world—one that didn’t know your name, or your rank, or your failures.
And still, somehow, he found you.
“You’re not supposed to be out here alone,” Cody said behind you, voice low, familiar. His helmet was under one arm, the other hand resting casually on the DC-17 at his hip. He looked like he always did—composed, focused, but you knew the worry in his eyes.
You didn’t turn around. “A lot of things I’m not supposed to be.”
Silence stretched between you like mist in the trees.
“I felt you slipping,” he said quietly. “Even before this last mission. I thought… maybe if I gave you space…”
You let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t need space. I need the war to stop.”
He stepped closer. You heard the soft crunch of damp leaves under his boots. “It won’t. Not for a long time.”
“I know,” you whispered. “And that’s the problem.”
You turned to face him finally. His eyes locked on yours. You saw how tired he was, how long the war had weighed on him, too. But Cody was a soldier—he didn’t break. You weren’t sure if that was strength or something else entirely.
“I killed someone today,” you said. “Someone who tried to surrender. I didn’t even hesitate. It felt… right. Like the Force wanted it.”
His brows furrowed. “The Force doesn’t want blood.”
“Then what is it that’s whispering to me? Making me feel stronger every time I give in?”
Cody didn’t answer immediately. He just closed the distance, slow and steady, until you could feel the heat of him, grounding you.
“I don’t know much about the Force,” he said. “But I know you. And I know you’re not lost. Not yet.”
You shook your head. “You’re wrong. I’ve seen what’s inside me. There’s something dark. Something hungry.”
His hand touched your arm—gently, like you were something fragile and wild. “Then let me walk with you into it. Into the woods. Into whatever this is. You don’t have to face it alone.”
You stared at him, breath caught in your throat.
“You’re not afraid?” you asked.
“I’m afraid of losing you,” he said simply.
Something inside you cracked—just a little. Enough to let in the light. You leaned your forehead against his chest, and for a long moment, he held you there, arms steady around your shoulders, as if he could keep the darkness at bay just by holding on tight enough.
The woods were still around you. The war was far behind—for now.
And maybe, just maybe, if you kept walking, you’d find a way out of the forest together.
⸻
Summary: Pre-Attack of the Clones leading up to the first battle of Geonosis. inspired by “Cat’s in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin as I feel this song is very Jango and Boba coded.
______
Rain never stopped on Kamino.
It drummed a rhythm on the windows of the training facility—sharp, persistent, lonely. You stood by the glass, arms crossed, eyes scanning the endless gray. Somewhere outside. Another bounty. Another absence. Another silent goodbye.
“Back soon,” he always said, planting a kiss against your temple with a touch too light to anchor anything real. You used to argue—beg him to stay, to train, to raise the boy he brought into the world. But you learned quick: Jango Fett was a man of war, not of roots.
He was strapping on his vambraces when he noticed you watching him.
“Don’t start,” he muttered, not looking up. His voice was gruff, frayed from too many missions and too little sleep.
You didn’t move. “He asked if you were coming to training tomorrow. I didn’t know what to tell him.”
Jango paused, only for a second, before clicking the final strap into place. “Tell him the truth. I’m working.”
You stepped forward. “You could take one day off. Just one. He looks up to you—he waits for you. When you’re not here, he starts acting like you. Staring out windows, keeping things inside. Like father, like son.”
His jaw twitched. “I didn’t bring him here for you to turn into his mother.”
The words hit like a slug round.
You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m not trying to replace anyone, Jango. But you leave him here alone. What do you expect me to do? Pretend I don’t care?”
He finally looked at you. Those eyes, dark and calculating, softened only for seconds at a time. This wasn’t one of them.
“I expect you to train the clones. That’s the job. Not to start playing house.”
“I didn’t fall in love with you for the job,” you said, quieter now. “And I didn’t stay on Kamino because I like watching kids grow up as soldiers. I stayed for you. For him.”
Jango adjusted the strap on his blaster. “He’s not yours.”
“I know.”
You did know. You weren’t trying to be his mother. Not really. You just wanted him to have one—someone who remembered to ask if he’d eaten, who noticed when he had nightmares, who held him when he tried not to cry. Someone who didn’t just see a legacy in him.
Jango stepped close, pressed a kiss to your forehead, too soft for someone always on edge. It almost made you forget everything else.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said.
“You always say that,” you whispered.
But he was already turning away.
Slave I rose through the Kamino rain and vanished into cloud cover.
You didn’t cry. You just went back inside and checked Boba’s room. He was asleep, curled up with one of his father’s old gloves tucked under his pillow like a security blanket.
You didn’t belong in their family. You knew that. But in Jango’s absence, you became something Boba needed. A voice when silence was heavy. A shield when pain crept too close. Not a mother—but a presence.
Even if Jango never wanted you to be.
So you stayed behind. For Boba.
He was quiet, sharp, and already wearing boots two sizes too big—trying to fill his father’s shoes before he even hit puberty. You weren’t his mother, not by blood, not by name, but someone had to care enough to keep him human. To make sure he didn’t disappear behind armor and legacy.
You cooked for him. Taught him hand-to-hand when Jango was gone. Helped him with clone drills, even when he rolled his eyes and said, “I’m not like them.” You tried to make him laugh. He rarely did.
One night, while putting away gear, he asked, “You gonna leave too?”
You paused. “No, Boba. Not unless I have to.”
“Dad says people always leave. That it’s part of the job.”
You crouched beside him, met his eyes. “He’s wrong. Or maybe he’s just scared to stay.”
⸻
Geonosis burned red.
Jango’s signal cut out too fast. Too sudden. You heard Mace Windu’s name in the comms, and something inside you fractured. Still, you led your squad—your clones—into the fight. They needed you. They trusted you. Jango didn’t.
When the battle ended, smoke still rising from the arena, you ran to the landing zone—knew exactly where the Slave I would be.
And there he was.
Boba, small and shaking, helmet too big in his arms. He looked up, eyes glassy but sharp.
“You’re with them,” he hissed, his voice more venom than grief. “You helped them.”
You stepped forward. “I didn’t know he’d—Boba, please. This isn’t what I wanted.”
“You’re a traitor.”
He turned, walking toward the ship, the ramp already lowering.
“You can’t do this alone,” you warned. “The galaxy isn’t kind. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I’ve got his armor. His ship. That’s all I need. I don’t need you anymore”
You reached for him—but he was already walking up the ramp, shoulders square like his father’s, jaw clenched with fury too big for his body.
You didn’t follow.
⸻
Years passed.
The Empire rose. You faded into shadows. The clones you once trained died in unfamiliar systems, stripped of names and purpose. You lived quiet, took jobs on the fringe—nothing that put you on anyone’s radar.
Until you crossed paths again.
Carbon scoring lit the walls of an abandoned outpost. A bounty had gone sour. You moved through smoke with the ease of memory—blaster in hand, breath steady. And then he stepped into view.
The armor was repainted, darker, scarred, refined. The stance, identical. The voice, modulated but unmistakable.
“You always did show up where you weren’t wanted,” Boba said.
You stared. He was taller now, broader. His face—Jango’s face, down to the line of his brow.
“I didn’t know it was you,” you murmured.
“Wouldn’t have mattered if you did.”
You lowered your weapon first. “You’re good.”
He gave a single nod. “Learned from the best.”
A beat.
“You look just like him,” you said quietly.
“Yeah. No surprise there”
There was no warmth in his words. Just steel. Just the ghost of a boy you tried to protect.
“Was that what you wanted? To become him?”
Boba stared at you for a long time. Then: “I didn’t have a choice. He left me everything… and nothing.”
You stepped closer, heart tight. “I tried, Boba. I tried to give you more than that.”
“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
He walked past you. Didn’t look back.
As he disappeared into the dusk, all you could think of is how he turned out just like him. His boy was just like him.