Ryio Chuchi x Commander Fox x Reader x Sergeant Hound
The doors hissed closed behind you, muting Coruscant’s constant thrum. Your heels clicked against the marble tiling—white-veined, blood-dark stone imported from home, etched with quiet pride.
The apartment was dim, tasteful, and cold—just the way you preferred it. You dropped your cloak onto the back of a chaise and walked straight for your desk.
The datapads were already stacked like bricks of guilt.
You sank into the high-backed chair, activated the holoscreen, and scrolled through messages from governors, planetary councils, and military liaisons. The usual blend of corruption, ego, and veiled threats disguised as diplomacy.
Too much to do. Never enough time.
“Perhaps you should consider a protocol droid,” murmured Maera, your senior handmaiden, gliding in with a cup of steaming blackleaf tea. “One of the newer models. They can help prioritize correspondence and handle… the more tedious tasks.”
You looked at her over the rim of your cup. “So you mean let a metal snitch sit in my office all day?”
“They’re quite helpful,” she said, folding her hands. “Especially with translations, cross-senate scheduling, cultural briefings—”
“I know what they do.”
Maera gave you a patient look—the kind she’d perfected over years of serving someone who never stopped. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“Of course I do,” you said, already scanning through another briefing. “Because no one else does it right.”
The chime of your apartment door interrupted further commentary.
You didn’t look up. “Let them in.”
Maera bowed, then vanished toward the front foyer.
You heard the faint murmur of pleasantries, the soft wheeze of servos, and then—
“Oh, this place again,” came the indignant voice of a droid. “Why does it always smell faintly of molten durasteel and latent judgment?”
“C-3PO,” came Padmé’s warning voice, graceful and composed even when exasperated.
You turned slightly in your chair to face your guests. Senator Amidala, as ever, was luminous in Naboo silk, gold accents at her collar and sleeves. Anakin followed just behind her, less formal, hands in his belt, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
C-3PO trailed in with careful offense, wringing his hands as if expecting you to insult him on sight.
You stood slowly, arching a brow. “I’d say it’s a surprise, but I’ve been too tired to lie today.”
Padmé gave you a sharp smile—more real than most. “We came to discuss the fallout from the Senate hearing. Your… performance with Senator Kessen.”
Anakin was already smirking. “You mean the part where she lit his reputation on fire and danced in the ashes?”
“I didn’t dance,” you said mildly. “I just pointed out the arson had been self-inflicted.”
Padmé pressed her lips together. “It was a bold move. Some say reckless.”
“And others say effective.”
“Others,” Padmé said carefully, “are wondering if you’re trying to provoke more conflict than resolution.”
You rolled your eyes and gestured to the chair opposite your desk. “Sit down, Senator. You’ll get a cramp standing on that moral high ground all night.”
She exhaled, and—credit to her—actually sat.
You watched her for a moment, then lazily turned your gaze to C-3PO, who was busy inspecting a vase and making soft noises of horror at the lack of polish.
“So,” you said abruptly. “Do you enjoy having a protocol droid?”
Padmé blinked. “Pardon?”
You leaned forward, expression sly and disarming. “C-3PO. Is he worth the constant commentary and fragility? Or do you keep him around to make you feel more composed by comparison?”
C-3PO squawked. “I beg your pardon, Senator, I am an exceptionally rare and invaluable translation and etiquette droid—”
Padmé raised a hand, silencing him gently. “I find him useful. Occasionally irritating, but… helpful.”
“Hmm.” You leaned back. “I suppose it’s easier when you don’t mind being listened to.”
Anakin stifled a laugh. Padmé gave him a warning glance.
You shifted slightly in your chair, eyeing her again.
“You didn’t come here just for diplomacy. What’s the real reason?”
“I did want to talk about Kessen,” Padmé said evenly. “But… yes. There’s more. I’m concerned about the alliances you’re forming. With Skywalker. With… certain Guard officers.”
“Fox,” you supplied, smiling faintly.
Her expression flickered. “You’re not subtle.”
“I’ve never needed to be,” you said. “Subtlety is for people whose power isn’t visible.”
Padmé’s voice softened. “Be careful. People are watching you more closely than ever. You’ve made enemies, and you’re not on neutral ground anymore.”
You stood slowly, brushing nonexistent dust off your skirt. “I’ve never had neutral ground.”
Behind her, Anakin leaned on the back of the couch with a half-smirk. “Told you she’d say something like that.”
Padmé sighed.
The light in your home office softened as the sun began to vanish behind the metallic skyline. Coruscant’s artificial twilight crept in, and shadows elongated against the marble floor, the sharp silhouette of the Senate still looming in the distance through your tall windows.
Padmé stood now, hands folded neatly in front of her, expression calm, composed—but not cold.
“For what it’s worth,” she said quietly, “we’ve never seen eye-to-eye in the Senate. Our values differ, and our approaches even more so.”
You arched a brow. “A gracious understatement.”
She continued without rising to the bait. “But I still want you to be safe.”
That made you blink, just for a moment. A flicker of something softened your features, though it disappeared just as quickly.
Padmé took a breath, glancing sidelong at Anakin before she added, “And while I don’t agree with the friendship you and Skywalker seem to have built, I understand why you formed it.”
You tilted your head. “You disapprove?”
“I worry,” she corrected. “He has a habit of getting drawn into… chaos. You carry more of it than most.”
You gave a slow, dark smile. “I thought he liked that.”
“He does,” Anakin chimed in from the corner, hands clasped behind his back.
Padmé gave him a sharp glance. He shrugged like a delinquent Padawan.
“But regardless,” Padmé said firmly, refocusing on you, “he’ll protect you, if you need it. That’s what he does. Whether I agree or not.”
You regarded her in silence for a long moment. Then you said, with just enough edge to be honest but not cruel, “It’s strange, Amidala. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken this long without one of us trying to crush the other in a committee vote.”
Padmé gave a small, tired laugh. “Well. There’s a first time for everything.”
You nodded once. “Your concern is noted. And… accepted.”
Padmé inclined her head, graceful as ever. Then, with one final look, she turned and made for the door.
C-3PO clanked after her. “Oh thank the Maker. Honestly, Senator, I don’t think I was designed for this level of tension!”
Anakin lingered a little longer, offering a subtle grin as he passed you.
“Don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone.”
You smirked. “You make it sound like a challenge.”
The apartment fell into stillness once more, the doors hissing shut behind Senator Amidala and her entourage. Outside, Coruscant’s traffic lanes shimmered like veins of light against the dusk. Inside, you remained at your desk, arms crossed loosely, head tilted back to stare at the ceiling as the silence swelled around you.
Footsteps padded softly across the marble, and Maera re-entered the study. She moved with careful grace, but she was watching you closely—too closely for comfort.
“You held your temper,” she said mildly.
You smirked, eyes still on the ceiling. “I’m evolving.”
“I almost miss the yelling.”
You finally looked down. “Don’t get sentimental.”
Maera glanced at the datapads still stacked on the desk, then turned her attention back to you. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
You exhaled through your nose and stood, smoothing the front of your robes with a practiced flick of your fingers.
“We’re going shopping.”
Maera blinked. “Shopping?”
You gave her a devilish smile—cool, amused, but exhausted around the edges. “For a protocol droid.”
She blinked again, just once more slowly. “I thought you hated protocol droids.”
“I do,” you agreed. “But I hate having to draft a thousand reply letters to planetary governors even more.”
She blinked again. “Is this because Senator Amidala made hers look useful?”
“It’s because I’ve learned that war criminals don’t schedule their own executions and Kessen’s supporters won’t shut up in my inbox.” You paused, then added with a shrug, “And fine, maybe I’m tired of forgetting which language the Kray’tok trade delegation prefers.”
Maera offered a rare grin, genuine but subtle. “I’ll call the droid district and start vetting models.”
“Do that,” you said. “Make sure whatever we get can take sass, curse in Huttese, and redact documents on command.”
“And maybe something that doesn’t faint when you pull a blaster on someone mid-sentence?”
“Exactly.”
She left with a knowing nod, and you stood alone for a beat longer, your eyes drifting to the window, to the glowing silhouette of the Senate dome.
You murmured under your breath:
“Let’s see if protocol can keep up.”
⸻
Mid-morning sunlight filtered through the transparisteel roof of Coruscant’s droid district. Neon signs buzzed, offering quick repairs and overpriced firmware updates. The air stank of ionized metal and fast food.
You stood between two handmaidens: Maera, your ever-calm shadow, and young Ila, who looked like she’d been plucked from a finishing school and hadn’t yet realized she was in a war-torn galaxy. Ila was already staring wide-eyed at a droid with one arm replaced by a kitchen whisk.
“Are they all this… rusty?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Only the cheap ones,” you replied dryly.
The first shop was a disappointment. The protocol droid bowed so low it knocked its head on the counter. The second tried to upsell you a ‘companion droid’ that made Ila blush violently. By the fourth shop, you were regretting everything.
“Maybe we just commission one from Kuat,” Maera muttered.
“Why? So it can bankrupt us while correcting my grammar?”
Then, in the fifth cramped storefront, you found it.
VX-7. The protocol droid stood motionless—sleek plating dulled by years, but optics sharp and intelligent. It didn’t grovel, didn’t babble. When you asked if it could handle over three dozen planetary dialects, it replied in all of them. When you asked if it could manage your schedule, redact sensitive communications, and tell a governor to kark off in six ways without causing a diplomatic incident, it smiled faintly and said:
“Of course, Senator. I specialize in tactfully worded hostility.”
You turned to Maera. “I’m keeping this one.”
Then something small rammed into your shin.
You looked down to see a battered astromech droid—paint chipped, dome scratched, one leg replaced with an old cargo hauler’s stabilizer. It beeped at you. Aggressively.
“What’s this?” you asked, raising a brow.
The shopkeeper looked apologetic. “R9-VD. Mean little bastard. Picks fights with power converters. Nearly blew a hole in my storage unit last week.”
Ila gasped. “Oh stars—he’s twitching!”
The droid growled.
You grinned. “I’ll take him.”
The shopkeeper blinked. “You will?”
“Buy one, bleed one free. Sounds like a bargain.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” he muttered, already dragging the crate of restraining bolts out from behind the counter. “Take him before he sets fire to my register again.”
Maera stared at you. “You’re collecting feral droids now?”
“I collect useful things.”
You exited into the street, the new protocol droid gliding beside you, R9 clanking along behind like a stubby little demon. Ila was still muttering prayers under her breath. You were halfway through admiring your new acquisitions when a familiar bark echoed from across the thoroughfare.
“Senator!”
You turned to find Sergeant Hound, helmet off, walking toward you in full armor—Grizzer trotting loyally at his side.
“Well, well,” you said. “Look who I find when I’m burdened with two droids and a fainting noble.”
Hound laughed, scratching behind Grizzer’s ear. “Running errands?”
“Recruiting staff,” you said, nodding toward the droids. “The tall one speaks over a thousand languages. The short one hates everything.”
Grizzer growled affectionately at the astromech, who let out an aggressive beep in return.
“Careful,” Hound chuckled. “Grizzer likes him.”
You watched the way he stood—relaxed but alert, protective but never patronizing. When he met your eyes, there was no awkwardness, no nervous fumbling.
No obliviousness.
“Walking your route?” you asked.
“North patrol. You’re in my sector.”
“How fortunate for me,” you said, letting your tone shift slightly—warm, measured, curious. Not performative.
Just real.
Hound smiled, a little wider than usual. “Need an escort home again, Senator?”
“Only if Grizzer promises not to chew on R9’s restraining bolt.”
The droid made a noise like it was loading a weapon. Grizzer barked once, delighted.
Hound looked between you, the droids, your handmaidens—then back to you.
“I think I could be persuaded.”
You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it reached your eyes.
⸻
The doors to your apartment hissed open with a smooth sigh of hydraulics. The droids rolled and clicked in after you, their sensors flicking to scan the space—uninvited, instinctual, and irritating.
“Ila,” you called before your cloak hit the back of the nearest chair. “Make sure the astromech doesn’t electrocute anything.”
“Yes, Senator!” she said quickly, scrambling after the droid as it began sniffing around the comm terminal like it wanted to chew through the wires.
“Maera,” you continued, already tugging off your gloves. “I want them both repainted, polished, and calibrated by tomorrow morning.”
Maera raised a brow. “The astromech too?”
“I want it looking like it belongs to a senator, not some spice-smuggler from Nal Hutta.”
“The protocol droid seems compliant,” Maera said dryly. “The other one just tried to bite the upholstery.”
You turned and narrowed your eyes at R9-VD, who stared back—optics glowing, dome twitching.
“I don’t care if it wants to die in rusted anonymity. It’s going to shine. And we’ll scrub the attitude off if we have to sandblast it.”
Maera only nodded, too used to this by now. She snapped her fingers toward the cleaning droids and pulled out a datapad to begin scheduling repairs and a polish crew.
You poured yourself a glass of something dark and expensive and leaned against the balcony frame. The city buzzed beyond the transparisteel, a sleepless, greedy animal that had become your second home.
The protocol droid finally stepped forward, voice even.
“Shall I begin familiarizing myself with your schedule, Senator?”
“Start with everything I’ve put off since the Kessen disaster.”
“That could take a while.”
“Good,” you said with a small smile. “That means I’ll finally be caught up.”
As the droids were ushered away for cleaning, you took a sip of your drink, eyes never leaving the skyline.
Everything was sharpening.
Even your toys.
⸻
Coruscant’s dusk cast long shadows over the Guard barracks. Inside the command room, Fox stood over a data console, reviewing the latest internal report—a thinly veiled attempt to stay busy, to stay removed. The hum of troop activity outside was constant, comforting. Controlled.
Hound leaned against the far wall, arms folded, helmet clipped to his belt. He’d been unusually quiet on patrol. Fox noticed.
“You’ve been around the senator a lot lately,” Fox said, voice neutral, still scanning the holoscreen. “She using you for access?”
Hound’s brow ticked upward, slow and unimpressed. “That a serious question?”
Fox finally looked up. “She doesn’t keep people close unless she can gain from it.”
“She doesn’t exactly keep you far.”
That made Fox pause.
Hound pushed off the wall and stepped forward, tone low. “You ever think she’s not using either of us?”
“She’s a politician,” Fox said bluntly. “That’s what they do.”
“And you’re a commander,” Hound shot back. “You’re supposed to see the battlefield. But somehow you can’t see that both those senators—Chuchi and her—don’t just want your vote in a hearing. They want you. And you—kriffing hell, Fox—you’re so deep in denial, it’s tragic.”
Fox opened his mouth, but nothing came. His jaw tensed. His fingers curled tighter over the edge of the console.
Before the tension could crack the air entirely—
“Commander Fox.”
The voice was delicate, practiced, kind. Senator Chuchi stepped into the command room, her pale blue presence a breath of cold air between the two men.
Hound stepped aside, silent.
Chuchi held out a small datapad. “These are the updated refugee settlement numbers. I thought it best to deliver them personally.”
Fox took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long. “Appreciated, Senator.”
Chuchi’s eyes lingered on him, soft but calculating. “I also hoped to ask you about additional patrol rotations near the lower levels. I’ve had…concerns.”
Her tone was careful, concern genuine—but her glance toward Hound didn’t go unnoticed.
Hound met it with polite detachment, but behind his eyes, something shifted. He excused himself quietly and stepped past them, boots heavy on the stone floor. Neither of them saw the way his jaw clenched or the storm in his expression as he exited.
Fox stood frozen a moment longer, datapad in hand, Chuchi watching him.
Something had changed.
The lines were no longer clean.
He used to know what battlefield he stood on.
Now… he wasn’t so sure.
⸻
It wasn’t like you were following Fox.
You just happened to be heading toward the main Guard corridor with a report in hand. The protocol droid clanked behind you, reciting lines of political updates from other mid-rim systems while your new astromech—newly repainted in deep senate gold and high-gloss black—scuttled along beside it, muttering occasional threats at passing security cameras.
Pure coincidence, really.
You slowed when you rounded the corner near the war room. There they were—Fox and Chuchi.
She stood closer than usual. Too close.
Her hand brushed his vambrace as she handed him something. Fox didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just… stood there. Controlled. Focused. But not untouched.
You paused. Watched. Tilted your head.
For a second, you hated her grace. Her softness. The way she made proximity seem natural instead of tactical. And how Fox didn’t seem to flinch from it.
A glimmer of something crawled up your spine—irritation? Jealousy? No. You didn’t have the luxury of that.
Before you could form a thought sharp enough to fling like a dagger—
CLANK—whiiiiiiiiirRRRRRZK—BEEP BEEP BEEP.
R9-VD rounded the corner like a demon loosed from hell’s server room, chased by your newly programmed protocol droid, whose polished plating gleamed like a diplomatic dagger.
“Senator!” the protocol droid trilled. “Your schedule is running precisely six minutes behind! Shall we move?”
Fox turned instantly at the racket, his expression shifting from unreadable to just vaguely resigned.
Chuchi stepped back from him with that serene smile she always wore in public, just a whisper too composed.
“Ah,” you said smoothly as you strode into view, “Don’t let me interrupt.”
“Senator,” Fox greeted you, stiff but polite. Chuchi nodded.
You let your gaze flick between them, slowly. One brow raised, mouth curved like you already knew the answer to a question no one asked. “Looks like everyone’s getting awfully familiar lately.”
“Professional coordination,” Chuchi replied, not missing a beat.
“Mm,” you hummed, eyes on Fox. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”
Fox’s brow twitched. Chuchi’s smile remained.
You snapped your fingers, and both droids froze. “Let’s go. We’ve got senators to ignore and corruption to thin out.”
As you swept past, you didn’t miss the way Fox glanced at you—just for a heartbeat.
Not enough.
Never enough.
But still… something.
⸻
The rotunda thundered with voices—some raised in passion, others carefully modulated with practiced deceit. The topic today was dangerous, volatile: the proposal for the accelerated production of a new wave of clone battalions.
You stood with one arm draped lazily along the back of your bench, expression unreadable but gaze sharp as vibroglass. Across the chamber, Chuchi had just taken the floor.
“I speak not against the clones themselves,” Chuchi said clearly, firmly. “But against the idea that we can continue this endless production without consequence. We are bankrupting our future.”
Your fingers tapped against the railing, the only sign of interest until you leaned forward to activate your mic.
“For once,” you said, voice cutting smoothly through the chamber, “I find myself in agreement with my esteemed colleague from Pantora.”
A ripple of surprise swept through the seats like a silent explosion. A rare alliance—unthinkable.
You continued. “We’re manufacturing soldiers like credits grow on trees. They don’t. The Banking Clan is already circling like carrion. Every new battalion is another rope around the Republic’s neck.”
That set the chamber ablaze.
Senator Ask Aak from Malastare sputtered his disagreement. “Our survival depends on maintaining numerical superiority!”
“And what happens when we can’t feed those numbers, Senator?” you snapped. “Do we sell your planet’s moons next?”
As chaos unfolded, the usual suspects fell into line—corrupt senators offering their support for more clone production, their pockets no doubt already lined with promises from arms manufacturers and banking lobbyists.
After the session ended, you stood shoulder to shoulder with Chuchi outside the rotunda. She looked exhausted but satisfied.
“Strange day,” she said quietly. “Stranger allies.”
You sipped from a flask you definitely weren’t supposed to have in the Senate building. “Don’t get used to it.”
But before she could respond—
“Senators,” came the purring, bloated voice of Orn Free Taa, waddling over with the smugness of someone who believed he owned the floor he walked on. “Your sudden alliance is… fascinating. One might wonder what prompted it. A common bedfellow, perhaps?”
You opened your mouth—but your protocol droid stepped forward first, blocking your path like a prim, glossy wall.
“Senator Taa,” the droid began in clipped, neutral tones. “While my mistress would be more than happy to humor your curious obsession with projecting your insecurities onto others, she is currently preoccupied with not strangling you with her own Senate robes.”
Taa blinked, thrown off by the droid’s tone. “Excuse me?”
The protocol unit didn’t miss a beat. “Forgive me, Senator. That was the polite version. I am still calibrating my diplomatic protocols, but I’ve been programmed specifically to identify corruption, incompetence, and conversational redundancy. You seem to be triggering all three.”
A sharp wheeze escaped Taa’s throat. “Why, I never—!”
“I suspect you have,” the droid interjected coolly, “and quite often.”
You didn’t even try to hide your smirk. “Don’t worry, Senator. He’s new. Still ironing out his filters. But I must say—he has excellent instincts.”
Chuchi choked on a laugh she tried very hard to disguise as a cough. Taa huffed and stormed off in an indignant swirl of silks and jowls.
Your droid turned to you. “Mistress, was I too subtle?”
“Perfect,” you said, patting its durasteel head. “I’ll make sure you get an oil bath laced with Corellian spice.”
Beside you, Chuchi finally let her laugh out. “I never thought I’d say this, but I may actually like your droid.”
“High praise coming from you.”
You both stood there for a quiet moment, mutual respect buried beneath mutual exhaustion.
“Today was strange,” she murmured again. “But… maybe not entirely bad.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t tell me you’re warming up to me, Chuchi.”
She gave you a look—wry, but not cold. “I’m starting to wonder if the galaxy would survive it if I did.”
Before you could respond, your astromech barreled out of the shadows, shrieking some new string of mechanical curses at a cleaning droid it had apparently declared war against.
You sighed. “And there goes diplomacy.”
Chuchi smiled. “Maybe the Senate could use more of that.”
Maybe.
⸻
The Grand Atrium of the Senate tower glittered with chandeliers imported from Alderaan, light dancing off glass and gold like it had something to celebrate. The banquet was a delicate affair—sponsored by the Supreme Chancellor himself, under the guise of “Republic Unity” and “Cross-Branch Collaboration.”
You could smell the tension in the air the moment you stepped in.
Long tables overflowed with artful dishes and finer wines. Senators mingled with Jedi, Guard officers, and military brass. Laughter drifted across the space, hollow and too loud. You walked in dressed to kill, as always—not in literal armor, but close enough. Your eyes swept the crowd. Scanned. Not for enemies. Just… two men.
You found them both within seconds.
Fox stood near the far arch, stoic in formal Guard reds, talking with Mace Windu and Master Yoda. Chuchi was at his side, hands clasped politely, expression open, deferential. Her eyes weren’t on Windu.
They were on Fox.
Across the room, Hound leaned against a support pillar near the musicians, his posture deceptively casual. Grizzer lay at his feet like a shadow. Hound’s eyes found yours immediately. He didn’t look away.
For a few beats, neither did you.
“You’re staring again,” your handmaiden whispered as she passed, wine in one hand.
“I’m assessing military distribution,” you replied flatly, plucking the glass.
“Liar.”
You smiled over the rim.
The Jedi presence tonight was thick. Kenobi, cloaked in his usual piety. Skywalker, prowling the crowd like he’d rather be anywhere else. Even Plo Koon and Shaak Ti made appearances, the Council exuding quiet power.
You didn’t care about them. Not really.
You moved.
Chuchi’s voice reached your ears as you approached the table where she and Fox stood. “I just think the Guard needs greater Senate oversight—not control, but transparency. For their safety.”
Fox nodded. “A fair point, Senator.”
“I’m shocked,” you drawled, appearing at his other side. “You usually flinch when people imply oversight.”
Chuchi’s smile cooled half a degree. “Some of us don’t believe in oversight being synonymous with domination.”
You sipped your wine. “I don’t dominate anyone who doesn’t want to be.”
Fox choked on his drink. Windu raised a brow and promptly walked away.
Chuchi’s stare could have frosted glass. “You’re impossible.”
“Debatable,” you replied. Then, sweetly, “Careful, Senator. You’re starting to sound jealous.”
Before Fox could open his mouth—likely to misinterpret all of this—Hound appeared beside you.
“Senator,” he said, his voice a little low, a little warm. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
You tilted toward him just slightly. “Trying to avoid me?”
“Not a chance.”
Fox’s eyes flicked toward you both. Sharp. Confused.
Chuchi noticed. Her gaze narrowed.
The conversation fractured as other senators arrived—Mon Mothma offered a cool nod, Padmé a quiet, guarded greeting. Bail approached with that politician’s smile and a quick, dry joke about the wine being better than the Senate votes.
But your attention split.
Fox’s shoulders were tense. He wasn’t making eye contact. Not with Chuchi. Not with you.
You leaned closer to Hound instead. “Tell me, Sergeant. Ever get tired of playing guard dog?”
“Not if the person I’m guarding’s worth the chase.”
That pulled a quiet snort from you. Fox heard it.
Chuchi, lips pressed in a fine line, excused herself and stepped aside—clearly trying to regain the upper hand.
The music swelled. Jedi floated between circles of influence. No one else seemed to notice that the air had gone charged, electric. A love square strung tight.
You stood between them, half a heartbeat from chaos.
And somewhere deep down, you enjoyed it.
The lights in the atrium dimmed just slightly as a new musical ensemble began to play—string instruments from Naboo, delicate and formal. On the surface, everything was polished elegance. Beneath, cracks were spreading.
Chuchi had excused herself from your circle not out of disinterest, but strategy. She’d caught sight of your handmaidens lingering near a refreshments table, their gowns modest and their eyes sweeping the room with practiced subtlety.
“Excuse me,” she said with a gentle smile as she approached. “You’re the senator’s attendants, yes?”
Your senior handmaiden, Maera offered only a nod. Ila, eager to please and twice as naive, curtsied.
“She’s fortunate to have you,” Chuchi continued, a kindness in her voice. “It can’t be easy, assisting someone so… involved in such controversial matters.”
“It isn’t,” said the younger girl quickly. “But she’s not what people say. She just—”
“She just doesn’t care who she angers, as long as it moves the line,” the elder interrupted. “It’s her strength. And her flaw.”
Chuchi tilted her head. “You’re fiercely loyal.”
“We don’t have the luxury of softness where we’re from, Senator Chuchi,” the elder said simply. “Not all planets grow up in peace.”
Before Chuchi could respond, a sudden flare of static caught attention nearby.
Your protocol droid—newly repainted and proud in fresh navy and chrome—was engaged in a verbal deathmatch with none other than C-3PO.
“I assure you,” Threepio huffed, “I have been fluent in over six million forms of communication since before you were assembled, and—”
“Perhaps,” your droid cut in smoothly, “but proficiency does not equal relevance. One might be fluent in six million forms of conversation and still be incapable of saying anything useful.”
“Well, I never—!”
“Correct. And that, sir, is the problem.”
Nearby Jedi Council members were visibly trying not to react, though Plo Koon’s mask did a poor job of hiding the amused twitch at the edge of his mouth.
Amid the chaos, you had drifted from the center. Politics buzzed behind you. You found yourself near the balcony edge—narrow, cordoned off, affording a view of Coruscant’s skyline.
Fox found you there.
You knew it was him before he spoke—he moved like precision, shadow and control in equal measure.
“Senator.”
You didn’t turn, not right away. “Commander.”
He stepped beside you, stiff in his formal armor, helmet clipped to his belt.
“I noticed your… astromech’s absence tonight.”
You smirked faintly. “Yes, well. I’d like to avoid sparking an incident with the Jedi Council over a ‘misunderstanding.’ He has a habit of setting things on fire and claiming self-defense.”
Fox made a sound—something between a huff and a grunt. Amused. Maybe.
You turned your head slightly, catching his expression. “Disappointed? I thought you didn’t approve of my companions.”
“I don’t,” he admitted. “But I’m…used to them.”
That was, for Fox, practically a declaration of fondness.
“I’d say the same about you,” you said, voice quieter now. “I don’t approve of you either. But I’ve gotten used to you.”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Not directly. But his eyes lingered longer than they should have.
Then—
“Senator,” Chuchi’s voice cut across the air like a scalpel.
You turned to find her approaching, poised and polished. Behind her, your protocol droid and C-3PO were still trading passive-aggressive historical references. Hound watched the balcony from a distance, arms crossed, unreadable.
Fox straightened the moment Chuchi arrived. You stepped back just a little.
And the triangle turned into a square again.
Tight.
Tense.
And ready to collapse.
⸻
Beyond the golden arches of the Senate Hall, music swelled and faded like waves. Goblets clinked. Laughter rolled off the lips of polished politicians and robed generals. But not everyone was celebrating.
Behind an alcove veiled by rich burgundy drapes, four Jedi stood in quiet counsel.
Mace Windu, ever the sentinel of Order, stood at the head of the half-circle, his gaze fixed beyond the banquet like he could see the fractures forming beneath the marble.
“His behavior has changed,” Windu said. “Subtly. But not insignificantly.”
“He still reports for duty,” Plo Koon offered, voice gravel-smooth but thoughtful. “Still acts with discipline.”
“And yet,” Shaak Ti murmured, “I have observed Commander Fox linger longer than usual at Senate functions. His patrol patterns shift more often when certain senators are present. And he has taken… liberties with Senator Ryio’s assignments.”
“Nothing has breached protocol,” Anakin interjected. “Fox is loyal. He’s the best the Guard has.”
Shaak Ti gave him a long look. “And yet, there is more than one clone whose loyalty might now be divided.”
Anakin’s jaw twitched.
“This isn’t Kamino,” Windu said coolly. “We cannot afford emotional compromise in the Guard—not now, not when tensions are already splintering the Senate. These clones were not bred for palace intrigue.”
Plo Koon folded his arms. “And yet we bring them into the heart of it.”
“We trained them to follow orders,” Shaak Ti added gently. “Not hearts.”
Anakin looked between them, the shadows of his past bleeding into the tension. He didn’t need to ask who else they were talking about. It wasn’t just Fox. Hound had been seen near Senator [Y/N]’s apartment. Thorn, too, had lingered far longer than necessary when she’d been attacked.
“She’s dangerous,” Mace continued, tone edged in steel. “Not reckless—but calculating. Clever. Her alliances shift like smoke, and I do not trust her attention toward Fox or the others.”
“She’s done nothing wrong,” Anakin said.
“Yet,” Windu countered. “Keep watch, Skywalker. If she’s tangled them in personal threads, it must be cut. Quickly.”
⸻
You sipped from your glass of deep red wine, half-listening to a cluster of outer rim delegates arguing over fleet taxation. But your eyes wandered, again, to the crimson armor across the room.
Fox.
He was speaking with Mon Mothma and Bail Organa. Calm. Professional. Controlled, as always.
But his gaze flickered toward you now and then—unreadable, unreadably Fox. And just behind him, your polished protocol droid hovered patiently, Maera and Ila whispering about a dessert tray.
The Council was watching. You could feel it.
⸻
The air inside the Jedi Councilchamber was tense, still, and too quiet. Four members of the Coruscant Guard stood before the Jedi Council’s senior representatives: Fox, Thorn, Stone, and Hound, all sharp in posture, their expressions unreadable behind the stoic training of a million battlefield hours.
Opposite them, stood Masters Mace Windu, Shaak Ti, Plo Koon, and a late-arriving Anakin Skywalker, who kept to the shadows of the room.
“This is not an accusation,” Master Windu began, tone steely. “But a reminder. You are peacekeepers. Defenders of the Republic. Not participants in the political games of its Senate.”
Shaak Ti added gently, “We’ve noted a… shift. Certain guards developing close ties to senators. Attachments. Loyalties. Intimacies. We remind you that such relationships blur lines—lines that should never have been crossed.”
Plo Koon looked to them with quiet concern. “It is not about love, nor about loyalty. It is about danger. Risk. The Republic cannot afford to have its protectors compromised by personal bonds.”
Hound flinched. Barely. Fox didn’t move, but Thorn cast him a pointed glance.
“We won’t name names,” Windu said, “but this is your only warning. Choose duty.”
Dismissed, the clones saluted and filed out, silent as ghosts—yet burdened more heavily than ever.
⸻
It was nearly midnight when the knock came. You weren’t expecting anyone—Maera had already sent off the last reports, and Ila was curled up with a datapad on the couch.
Maera opened the door, only to blink as Anakin Skywalker strolled in, cloak trailing and R2-D2 chirping along behind him.
“Don’t tell me the Jedi are doing door-to-door interrogations now,” you said, not bothering to stand from your desk.
“Just figured you should hear it from someone who doesn’t speak in riddles and judgment,” Anakin replied. “They warned the Guard today.”
You looked up slowly.
“About me?”
“About all of it. You. Chuchi. Hound. Fox.”
You leaned back in your chair, lacing your fingers together. “So the Council knows?”
“They suspect,” he clarified. “But they’ve already made up their minds. No direct interference. But they’ll start pulling strings. Reassignments. Surveillance. Sudden policy shifts.”
You exhaled slowly. “Let me guess. The clones are the ones punished.”
Anakin’s jaw tightened. “Always.”
He came closer, leaning against the wall by your window. “Whatever this is, [Y/N], if you want to protect them—you keep it behind closed doors. Don’t give the Council an excuse.”
Your eyes narrowed, flicking up to him. “And what would you know about secret relationships with forbidden attachments?”
Anakin looked out over the Coruscant skyline. “More than you think.”
R2-D2 gave a sympathetic beep. At his side, your own droid—R9—rolled out from the side hall, curious as ever. Shockingly, the grumpy little astromech gave R2 a pleased warble. The two machines chirped at each other in low binary, exchanging stories, gossip, perhaps a murder plot. You couldn’t tell.
“Great,” you muttered. “My homicidal trash can made a friend.”
VX-7 entered as well, standing sentinel near the door and giving R2 a quick scan before offering a polite, professional greeting. “Designation confirmed. Diplomatic assistant, Anakin Skywalker. Cleared for temporary access.”
“You really upgraded them,” Anakin noted.
“They’re smarter than most senators,” you said with a dry smirk. “And less dangerous.”
He moved to leave, but hesitated. “Just… be careful. I know you think you don’t owe anyone anything—but Hound’s already in too deep. And Fox? He’s starting to crack.”
“Fox doesn’t even know he’s in love,” you said coolly.
“Exactly,” Anakin said. “That makes him more dangerous than the rest of us.”
You gave him a look. “Including you?”
Anakin’s lips quirked. “Especially me.”
Then he and R2 were gone, and the apartment fell quiet again—except for the low, strangely comforting chatter of astromechs speaking in beeps and secrets.
⸻
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