⸻
The cantina on Vradros IV reeked of sweat, desperation, and synth-spice. Which is to say, it smelled exactly like a place Wolffe would pick for a “quiet recon op.”
You leaned against the bar, twirling your drink with one hand, your blaster slung low on your hip like a challenge. You felt him before you saw him—Commander Wolffe moved like a ghost in armor, all steel and unspoken tension.
“You missed our meeting,” he said, voice low and gruff behind that half-scorched vocabulator.
You smirked. “I was busy. Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a life.”
“You don’t.” He paused. “Just seems like yours always conveniently conflicts with mine.”
You turned, sipping your drink lazily. “Aw. You miss me, Commander?”
Wolffe didn’t flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to. “You’re a pain in my shebs.”
“And yet,” you drawled, “here you are.”
He looked tired. No—past tired. He looked hollowed out, like someone who’d been running on fumes since the war ended, and no one remembered to tell him he could stop.
You tilted your head. “You sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“Eat?”
“When I remember.”
“Touch anyone lately?”
That got his attention.
His gaze flicked to yours, sharp and startled—but not offended. Never offended. Not with you.
“That’s a hell of a question.”
You shrugged. “It’s a hell of a galaxy.”
He was quiet for a beat, jaw tight.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You gonna hit me, or just keep talking?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You’ve been itching for a fight since I walked in.”
“No, you’ve been begging for one.” You looked him up and down. “Why?”
“Maybe I deserve it.”
“Oh, don’t get all martyr on me, Commander.” You narrowed your eyes. “What’s really going on?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, every inch of him coiled and unreadable.
And then he said, almost too quiet: “I just want to feel something.”
Ah.
There it was.
The crack in the armor.
Not in his phrasing—Wolffe would never be that direct—but in the weight behind the words. You’d seen it before. In soldiers who lost brothers. In children who never got hugged enough. In yourself, sometimes, when the nights were long and the stars too loud.
“Fine,” you said, stepping in close. “You wanna get hit?”
He nodded once, stiff.
You swung. Not hard—but enough to snap his head to the side.
The cantina didn’t even blink. No one cared. It was that kind of place.
Wolffe exhaled, slow and shaky. Turned his head back toward you.
And smiled.
A real one. Lopsided. Crooked. Full of pain and something almost like relief.
You grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him down to your level. “Next time you need to be touched, maybe try asking, instead of playing wounded karking bantha.”
He leaned in, voice rough. “Would you say yes?”
You kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
It was raw. Like striking flint to stone.
His hands came to your waist, holding on like he didn’t trust the ground to stay solid. You felt the tremor in him—not fear. Not hesitation. Just need.
You pulled back, just enough to murmur against his mouth: “Touch-starved bastard.”
He looked at you like you’d reached inside him and flipped a switch he forgot existed. “I deserved that punch.”
“You’ll deserve the next one too.”
He smirked. “Looking forward to it.”
⸻
Warnings: Death
⸻
The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.
Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.
You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.
Another shipment hijacked.
Another uprising quelled—barely.
Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.
When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.
“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”
You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”
“But I might,” she admitted.
You remained still, letting the quiet settle.
“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”
Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”
“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”
“You sound like my enemies.”
You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”
Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”
“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”
For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.
“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”
“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”
A long silence. Then, in a whisper:
“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”
You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.
“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”
She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.
You left her there.
⸻
The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.
You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.
They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.
It was happening again.
Only this time, you stood beside the throne.
⸻
Sundari had never been louder.
Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.
You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.
Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.
“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”
Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”
“You’re smart enough to know better.”
She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”
Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.
“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”
You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”
“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”
“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”
That was the final push.
Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.
“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.
You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.
“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”
The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.
He faltered.
And then—they stepped out of the shadows.
Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.
When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.
Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.
You turned away.
But it wasn’t over.
Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.
Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.
He walked past you.
“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.
Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”
Maul ignited his saber.
He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.
You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.
The Death Watch leader crumpled.
The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
Some kneeled. Others hesitated.
Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.
“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”
Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.
You remained.
You didn’t run.
Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.
He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.
“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”
He tilted his head.
“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”
Or…
“Will you die with your honor?”
“Kill me”
Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.
The cell was dark.
Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.
Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.
“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.
You looked over, slowly.
“For now.”
There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.
“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.
You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”
Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”
You smiled too. “Especially after those.”
She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”
You looked her in the eye.
“Not if I can stop it.”
⸻
They dragged you both from your cell.
Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.
And then he arrived.
Kenobi.
Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.
You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.
The confrontation played out as in the holos.
Maul relished every second.
Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.
And then—like a blade through your own chest—
Maul killed her.
Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.
You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.
“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”
He escaped—barely.
And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.
⸻
The city was choking under red skies.
Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.
You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.
A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.
Darth Sidious.
His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.
“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”
You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”
Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.
“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”
“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”
There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.
“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”
⸻
Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.
Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.
Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.
Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”
Sidious said nothing.
Then he struck.
The throne room erupted in chaos.
Lightsabers screamed.
Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.
You remembered your old training.
You remembered the cadets.
You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.
You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.
He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.
⸻
Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.
You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.
“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”
Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.
“No.”
You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”
“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”
You trembled, fists clenched.
“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”
You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.
And you stepped back.
“I did this for Mandalore.”
He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”
⸻
Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.
You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.
For your cadets.
For Satine.
For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.
You had survived again.
But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.
She was vengeance.
And she had only just begun.
⸻
You tried to vanish.
From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.
But you knew it wouldn’t last.
⸻
The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.
Sidious.
“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”
You said nothing.
“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”
You turned off the holoprojector.
Another message followed. And another. Then…
A warning.
“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”
That was it. The breaking point.
⸻
The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.
No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.
Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.
In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.
Not after he threatened them.
He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.
“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”
“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”
You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.
Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.
You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.
Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.
You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.
Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.
You wouldn’t get another shot.
The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.
You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—
A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.
Fox.
You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…
But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.
You pressed on.
You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.
The Chancellor was already there.
He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.
He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.
“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”
Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”
He smiled.
“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”
Your finger squeezed the trigger.
But then—
Ignited sabers.
The Jedi were already there. Three of them.
Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.
They had sensed your intent.
You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.
But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.
Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.
As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.
He leaned in close.
“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”
⸻
Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.
Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.
Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.
He stared at you a long time.
“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”
You didn’t speak.
He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.
“…Why?”
You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.
“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”
Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”
“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”
Fox looked down.
For a long moment, the room was silent.
Then quietly, almost brokenly:
“…You shouldn’t have come here.”
You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Post-Order 66, early Imperial Era
⸻
They called her a terrorist now.
Once upon a time, they called her General. Jedi. Friend.
But those days were ash.
The Jedi Order was gone—betrayed by its own soldiers, hunted by the Empire it helped birth, and erased from history like an inconvenient stain. Those who survived scattered like broken glass across the galaxy, hiding in shadows, smothering their light, hoping to live long enough to spark something again.
But not you.
You didn’t run. You didn’t bow. You didn’t hide.
You fought.
A lonely hero. Trying to fight too many battles.
Openly. Proudly. Recklessly, some would say. But you didn’t care. If they wanted to call you a terrorist, then let them. You were dangerous. Not because of your power, but because of your refusal to give up.
You lit your saber like a beacon in the dark. You attacked Imperial convoys. Freed enslaved workers. Raided supply depots. Stole data. Inspired whispers across the Outer Rim.
They posted your face on wanted screens with the words:
HIGHLY DANGEROUS. JEDI TERRORIST. KILL ON SIGHT.
And you laughed. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt alive.
But even fire can burn cold. Especially when you burn alone.
“Life likes to blow the cold wind…
Sometimes it freezes my shadow.”
⸻
The battle on Gorse was a blur of smoke, fire, and screams.
Another raid. Another desperate gamble. But this one wasn’t like the others.
Because he was there.
Commander Cody.
You saw him the moment he stepped out of the dropship. Clad in black-trimmed Imperial armor, a commander’s pauldron on his shoulder, his movements precise, efficient, familiar.
It hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze, mid-fight, your saber humming in your grip.
He saw you too. His helmet tilted. A heartbeat of stillness passed between you across the chaos.
And just like that, time rewound.
Missions. Long nights. Campsite coffee and war-room arguments. His voice in your comm: “Copy that, General.”
His voice in your dreams: “Stay alive. I’ll watch your back.”
But that was before. Before the betrayal. Before the chips. Before everything.
Now?
He raised his blaster rifle.
You didn’t move.
He didn’t shoot.
The stormtroopers around him hesitated, uncertain.
“Stand down,” Cody barked, his voice cold, sharp, and absolute. The troopers obeyed instantly.
You took one slow step forward.
“Cody,” you said, voice low.
His grip tightened, knuckles white beneath plastoid.
“You should’ve disappeared with the rest,” he said.
“I don’t know how to be quiet,” you answered, lifting your chin. “In the midst of all this darkness… I must sacrifice my ego for the greater good. There isn’t room for selfish..”
He said nothing.
For one awful second, you thought he might arrest you.
Instead, he turned and ordered a retreat.
He didn’t even look back.
⸻
Weeks passed.
You tried to forget. You kept fighting. You told yourself that the man you remembered was gone. Replaced by protocol. Stripped of soul.
But still… something gnawed at you.
The way he hadn’t shot. The way he’d told his men to stand down. The way his voice trembled just slightly when he said your name.
You started scanning intercepted comms during downtime.
Just in case.
And then, one night, across a crackling, half-jammed signal from a rebel slicer…
“—Commander Cody. AWOL.
Deserted post.
Last seen heading into the Outer Rim.
Do not engage without support.
Consider highly dangerous.”
You stopped breathing.
He left.
He left.
Everything blurred after that—coordinates, favors, stolen codes, sleepless nights. You chased shadows across half the galaxy. You didn’t know what you’d say if you found him.
But you knew you had to.
⸻
You found him on a dead moon. The kind no one bothered with anymore—cold, quiet, abandoned.
The outpost was half-crumbled. The fire inside even more so.
He was sitting beside it, helmet off, hunched forward, hands resting on his knees. His face looked older. Harder. Tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.
You stepped into the firelight without a word.
His head lifted. He didn’t reach for a weapon.
“Took you long enough,” Cody said quietly.
You swallowed. “You left.”
“You were right,” he replied. “You didn’t hide. I did. I stayed in the system because I thought it was safer. Cleaner. But it’s just slower death.”
Silence stretched between you. Wind howled outside, cold enough to steal breath.
“I thought I lost you,” you whispered.
Cody’s voice cracked just slightly. “I thought I destroyed you.”
You moved toward him, every step heavy.
“Why didn’t you shoot me?” you asked.
He looked at you—really looked. Like he was memorizing you again.
“Because even after everything… I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
You sat across from him, the flickering light catching on your saber hilt.
“You’ve got nowhere to go,” you said softly. “Neither do I.”
He let out a slow breath. “Then maybe we stay nowhere. Together.”
You stared at the flames, and for the first time in years, they felt warm.
“I’m still a wanted terrorist,” you reminded him.
Cody’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “Guess that makes me a traitor.”
You glanced at him. “I think I missed you.”
He met your eyes. “I know I missed you.”
And for a moment, the galaxy fell away. No war. No orders. Just two people sitting in the ruins of everything, quietly choosing each other anyway.
Hi! I have a request for Wolffe x fem!reader. They have a established relationship but Wolffe has been a little distant since order 66 happened... one night when he's sleeping in the readers coruscant apartment, she decides to ask him about it. Wolffe sort of pushes her away, thinking he's too broken and has already done too much bad, but she stays no matter what. She soothes him with some love and cuddles?
“Still Yours”
Commander Wolffe x Fem!Reader
⸻
The city lights of Coruscant cast a soft glow through the wide windows of your apartment, dancing across Wolffe’s armor where it lay discarded on the floor.
He lay on your bed now, back turned, shirt half-pulled on, one arm slung under his head like a shield.
You watched him breathe.
Even in sleep, it wasn’t easy. His breaths were shallow, uneven. Like he never really relaxed anymore. Like his body didn’t know how.
Since the end of the war—and the day everything changed—he’d been distant. Still present. Still Wolffe. But quieter. Withdrawn. Touch-starved but pulling away when you tried.
You couldn’t take it anymore.
You slid into bed beside him, soft and careful.
“Wolffe,” you whispered.
He didn’t open his eye.
“Are you awake?”
A beat of silence.
Then, “Yeah.”
You reached out, brushing your fingers across the back of his shoulder. “You’ve been… far away lately.”
He tensed under your touch. “I’ve just been tired.”
“No. You’re not tired. You’re hurting.” You sat up beside him, pulling the sheets with you. “You barely look at me anymore. You flinch when I say your name. You hold me like I’m something you’re about to lose.”
Wolffe turned over slowly, sitting up and running a hand down his face.
“Mesh’la, don’t do this right now.”
“I have to,” you said. “You think I don’t notice how hard you’ve been trying to pretend you’re fine? You sleep in my bed like a ghost.”
His jaw clenched. “What do you want me to say? That I followed orders that led to Jedi dying? That I don’t know what was real and what was the chip? That I still see it—them—when I close my eye?”
He stood, taking a few steps away like he could outrun it.
“I’m not who I used to be. I’m not your Wolffe anymore. I’m just—what’s left.”
You stood, quietly wrapping the sheet around yourself as you crossed the room to him.
“I don’t need the man you used to be. I love the man you are. Even when he’s broken. Even when he’s hurting.”
He shook his head. “You’re a senator. You’re out there fighting for clone rights beside Chuchi, risking your damn career. You still believe we’re worth saving. That I’m worth saving.”
“I do.”
“You’re wrong.”
You stepped in front of him, tilting his chin up until he had no choice but to look at you.
“I’m never wrong about you.”
Wolffe’s breath hitched, his hands trembling faintly at his sides.
“I let them die,” he said, voice breaking. “I didn’t even try to stop it. I just—followed orders like I always do. Like a good little soldier.”
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“Does that matter?” he rasped. “They’re still gone. I still pulled the trigger.”
You wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, speaking against his skin.
“You’re not a weapon, Wolffe. You’re a man. One who has done everything he could to survive. And I know you. I know the way you fought for your brothers. I know how much you loved them. I know how hard it’s been for you to stay.”
His arms slowly, reluctantly, came around you. Tight. Desperate.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how to keep you either. I’m not what you deserve.”
You pulled back just enough to kiss the scar at the edge of his temple, then rested your forehead against his.
“Then let me decide what I deserve. And I choose you.”
He let out a shaky breath, pressing his face into your neck like he was finally letting himself feel.
You guided him back to bed, pulling the covers over the both of you, holding him close—his arms around your waist this time.
You whispered, “I’m still here, Wolffe. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, he slept without flinching.
⸻
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.