Commander Fox X Reader - Blog Posts

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.5

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

Warnings: Death

⸻

The room was silent save for the rustling of robes and the faint hum of hoverchairs shifting in place. The Jedi Council chamber was vast, intimidating, and awash in golden morning light—but you stood in the center like a wraith returned from war, shackled and disarmed, your beskar armor dulled by ash and grief.

Master Windu’s voice was sharp, clipped. “You attempted to assassinate the Chancellor of the Republic.”

You said nothing at first.

“He is a threat,” you replied finally, your voice calm but tired, laced with something far deeper—haunted rage, maternal despair. “I’ve seen his true face.”

The Council shifted. Windu’s eyes narrowed.

“You accuse the Supreme Chancellor of deception?”

You didn’t look away. “I don’t accuse. I know. He’s manipulating this war. Playing both sides. He won’t stop until it destroys everything—including your Order.”

Obi-Wan, standing near the window, tensed. You saw the flicker in his eyes. Doubt. Pain. A memory of you at Satine’s side. Protective. Loyal. Fierce. Now here, branded a traitor.

Master Yoda, ancient and watchful, finally spoke.

“Hm. Evidence, do you have?”

“No. Just truth no one wants to hear.”

You took a breath. “But ask yourselves… how did he rise so quickly, so quietly? How did a million sons born for war appear at just the right time?”

That hit a nerve.

The room was heavy. Silent.

Yoda’s ears twitched. “Your words… clouded by fear, they are. But not wrong, perhaps…”

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fought in the wars that shattered Mandalore. I know what evil smells like before it has a name. And it reeks from him.”

Windu finally stood. “That’s enough.”

⸻

They didn’t sentence you. Not yet.

But they locked you away.

Solitary. Cold. A durasteel cell with only your memories and ghosts to keep you company. Your beskad, your helmet—gone. All you had was your silence.

And your voice.

You sat on the narrow bench, back against the wall, and closed your eyes.

And then—

You hummed.

Low. Soft. Familiar.

That lullaby.

“You may not know me because I changed

But mama will not stop lookin' for her baby

When the river takes, the river gives

And mama will search as long as she lives”

You didn’t know anyone was listening.

Fox sat alone in the darkened security station, staring at the holo-feed from your cell.

He’d patched in a secure line. Untraceable.

And quietly… he’d sent the link out.

To every one of your boys who’d ever looked up at you with those wide, wondering eyes.

Wolffe. Bacara. Cody. Rex. Neyo. Thorn. Hound. Doom. Gree. Bly. Ponds. Even the ones far from Coruscant. The ones with scars and stories and old memories of you ruffling their hair and calling them “vod’ika.”

They all watched. Quietly. No one spoke.

They watched their buir—now chained and branded a traitor—sit alone, and hum the song she used to sing when their bones ached from training. When they cried at night and you sat on their beds and promised they were more than weapons.

The melody reached them like a forgotten heartbeat.

Wolffe sat on his bunk, clenching his fists.

Bacara stared at the screen until tears blurred his vision.

Cody turned off his comm after the fifth replay—couldn’t bear to hear it again, but couldn’t not remember.

She was still fighting for them.

Even now.

⸻

The thunder of artillery filled the air. The ground quaked beneath each tread of their bikes. Dust painted the sky in shades of rust and smoke.

Commander Neyo stood at the edge of a ruined ridge, visor glowing crimson, posture carved in stone.

He didn’t flinch when the ground shook.

He didn’t turn when blasterfire cracked through the comms.

He was always composed.

But something was wrong.

He hadn’t spoken in three hours.

His troops didn’t question it. They followed orders, watched his gestures, executed movements like clockwork.

But his Jedi General noticed.

General Stass Allie approached, her silhouette cutting through the dust cloud. She said nothing at first—only stood beside him, watching the horizon of another broken world.

Finally, her voice, calm and knowing:

“You haven’t said a word since we left the rendezvous. That’s unlike you.”

Neyo didn’t move. “There’s nothing to say, General.”

“There’s always something,” she said softly. “Especially when someone’s hurting.”

He stiffened.

She didn’t push. Just stood with him, patient. Let the silence stretch like a held breath.

Then—

“There was a woman,” he said finally, the words dry and brittle, like he’d scraped them off a forgotten shelf. “A Mandalorian. She trained us. Before the war.”

Stass turned, curious.

“She wasn’t like the Kaminoans,” he said. “She saw us. Treated us like we mattered. Like we weren’t just gear for the Grand Army. She—”

His jaw clenched. “She was our buir.”

Stass blinked. “Your mother?”

He nodded once.

“What happened to her?”

“She was arrested. Tried to kill the Chancellor.”

The Jedi’s eyes widened. “And you believe she would do that?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore,” Neyo muttered.

He finally turned to her, his voice low. Raw.

“She used to sing to us, General. A lullaby. I hadn’t thought about it in years. But last night… Fox sent it out. To all of us. A commlink file, just her voice, humming the song.”

He looked away, something flickering behind the red glow of his visor.

“I couldn’t sleep after that. I couldn’t breathe.”

“You miss her,” Stass said gently.

“She was the first person who told us we were more than this.” He gestured to the battlefield, the armor, the broken sky. “And now she’s locked away. Branded a traitor. And I’m here, doing exactly what she feared.”

Stass placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your choices still matter, Neyo. What you feel matters.”

He didn’t reply.

But the silence wasn’t hollow anymore.

It was full of ghosts and lullabies and a thousand questions he’d never dared ask before.

⸻

The lights in her cell flickered faintly, a quiet rhythm in the stale, recycled air. Her wrists rested on her knees, ankles crossed, body still—except for the soft hum that slipped past her lips.

The song echoed faintly in the walls, brushing through the cold steel like a memory refusing to fade.

A quiet chime at the door.

She stopped humming.

The door hissed open.

Mace Windu stepped inside, arms folded beneath the weight of his dark robe. He said nothing at first, just looked at her—like he was trying to see beyond the armor, the Mandalorian blood, the criminal label stamped across her file.

She looked back. No fear. Just tired eyes.

“I was wondering which one of the high-and-mighty Jedi would come first,” she murmured, voice rough but dry with sarcasm. “Let me guess. You’re here to interrogate me like the rest?”

“No,” Mace said simply. “I came because I understand.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I had a Padawan once. Depa Billaba. She was strong. Proud. Brilliant. A better Jedi than I’ll ever be,” he said, stepping closer. “And I loved her like my own.”

He stopped just outside her reach. “When she went to war, I thought I could prepare her. That I could keep her from the worst of it. But war doesn’t care who trained you. Or how much someone loves you.”

The reader tilted her head, studying him now with less suspicion. “So you came to offer sympathy?”

“I came to offer truth,” he said.

She stood slowly, shackled wrists hanging between them. Her voice dropped. “I trained them. I fought for them. I protected them from Kaminoans who saw them as cattle and from a war they were born into without choice. You tellin’ me I should’ve let them go? Like it’s nothing?”

“No,” Mace said, firm but gentle. “But I am telling you—they’re not boys anymore. They’re soldiers. Men. Commanders of legions. They face things you trained them for. And they stand because of what you gave them. Your job is done.”

Her jaw tightened. Her voice cracked.

“They’re still my little boys.”

Mace was quiet for a moment. Then said, “They always will be.”

He sat on the edge of the bench across from her, letting the silence fill in the cracks.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” he said eventually. “But you can trust in what you built. And maybe—just maybe—you still have a part to play. But not if you let vengeance blind you.”

She looked away, staring at the wall—at nothing.

“You still believe in the Republic?” she asked.

“I believe in people,” Mace replied. “And I believe in second chances. Even for you.”

She scoffed. “That’ll make one of us.”

He stood. “Your story isn’t over.”

As he turned to leave, her voice came after him—quieter this time.

“Windu…”

He looked back.

“If anything happens to them—I’ll burn this galaxy to the ground.”

He didn’t smile. But there was something softer in his eyes.

“I’d expect nothing less.”

⸻

The metal door hissed shut behind Mace Windu. He took a deep breath. That woman—she was fury wrapped in armor, iron forged by war, motherhood, and betrayal. She reminded him of his younger self in a strange, haunting way. But she was right: if anything touched those clones—her boys—she’d scorch the stars.

He turned the corner of the sterile hallway and found Commander Fox standing at his post, helmet off, arms folded tight across his chest, back against the wall like he’d been waiting to be angry.

“Commander Fox,” Mace said with a nod.

Fox didn’t move. “General Windu.”

A pause.

“You’ve been watching,” Mace said.

“I made sure they could all see her. Thought they deserved it,” Fox replied, his voice flat but edged. “And I wasn’t watching you.”

Mace studied the clone’s expression. Cold. Worn. Eyes like someone who hadn’t slept right in years. A soldier pressed too hard, too long.

“She means something to you.”

“She means everything to us.” Fox looked away, jaw clenched. “She was the only one who saw us before the armor.”

“You don’t trust Jedi,” Mace said plainly.

“No, sir,” Fox said without hesitation. “And after what I’ve seen—what I’ve been ordered to do—I don’t think I ever will.”

Another pause.

“You think I’m here to use her. Same as the Kaminoans did.”

“I don’t think,” Fox said. “I know.”

There was no venom in it. Just weariness. Truth from a man who’d walked through hell with a gun and a number instead of a name.

“I’m not here to control her,” Mace said. “But I won’t let her destroy herself.”

“You won’t have to. The Republic already did that.”

Mace’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’re not wrong. But the war isn’t over yet. And she may still have a role to play.”

Fox pushed off the wall. “Yeah, well. When you figure out what that role is, maybe tell the Chancellor. Because he’s the one that locked her up like an animal for protecting us.”

He grabbed his helmet and slid it on.

Mace took a step forward. “She doesn’t see herself as a hero.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Fox replied through the vocoder. “We already do.”

With that, Fox walked away, crimson armor disappearing into the shadows of the corridor. Mace stood alone, the silence heavier now, full of all the things they hadn’t said.

⸻

The light from Coruscant’s upper levels spilled in through the large window panes, casting long, clean shadows across the briefing room. A war table flickered in the center, displaying the projected terrain of Utapau, with Grievous’ last known coordinates.

Commander Cody stood at the edge of it, helmet tucked under his arm, lips set in a thin, unreadable line. His armor was freshly polished, but the circles under his eyes betrayed sleeplessness.

Obi-Wan Kenobi entered the room quietly, robes billowing gently behind him.

“You’re early,” Kenobi said, voice light, but with a trace of concern beneath it.

“So are you, sir,” Cody replied without turning.

Kenobi walked up beside him and studied the projection for a long moment. “You seem troubled, Commander.”

Cody hesitated. “I’ve been having trouble… focusing, General. The men are ready. We’ve prepared. But something feels wrong. Off.”

Kenobi glanced sideways at him, then moved to sit at the edge of the war table.

“You’ve never brought doubts to me before.”

“I didn’t think they mattered before,” Cody said. “Now—I’m not so sure.”

The Jedi waited, giving him space.

Cody inhaled slowly, then said, “It’s her.”

Kenobi raised an eyebrow. “Your… Mandalorian?”

“My buir,” Cody corrected quietly. “She would’ve hated that title, but she earned it.”

Kenobi nodded solemnly. “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and fighting alongside her. She was a warrior who trained you before the war.”

“She trained us to survive the war,” Cody said, voice strained. “Not just fight it. She said… she said we weren’t bred for someone else’s throne. That we were more than their weapons. She called us her children.”

Kenobi leaned back, expression softening. “She saw what we didn’t.”

“She tried to kill the Chancellor.”

That silence hit hard between them.

“She didn’t give a reason,” Cody went on. “Just that he was a threat to her boys. That’s all she ever said. Not to the Jedi. Not to the Senate. Just… us.”

Kenobi folded his hands. “I believe her. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Cody looked at him, surprised.

Kenobi’s eyes were tired. “There’s a… darkness growing in the Senate. In the Force. Master Yoda feels it too. Perhaps your Mandalorian simply saw it with mortal eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes.”

Cody clenched his jaw. “I want to believe she was wrong. That the Republic is worth this. That you Jedi—” he paused, “—that you’re fighting the good fight.”

Kenobi looked away, thoughtful. “We are. But we’ve lost so much of ourselves in the fighting. I sometimes wonder if we’ve already lost what we were trying to protect.”

The silence stretched.

“I wish she could’ve seen us now,” Cody said, almost bitterly. “Maybe then she wouldn’t have tried to burn the galaxy down to save us.”

“She might have anyway,” Kenobi replied. “Mothers rarely wait for permission to protect their children.”

Cody blinked hard and nodded. “You’ll be careful, sir?”

Kenobi smiled faintly. “Always.”

Cody straightened, put his helmet on. “Then so will I.”

⸻

The storm of war was always preceded by silence.

Kenobi led the assault like a figure of light—focused, poised, graceful even in the chaos of fire and collapsing duracrete. General Grievous was dead. The battle was won.

Cody watched from a cliffside vantage point as the Jedi descended into the underbelly of the sinkhole city. It should’ve felt like a victory.

But instead…

He paced away from his men. The battle chatter crackled in his ear; Wounded evac requests, ammo tallies, the final mop-up reports. He tuned it out.

And then his comm buzzed.

A direct transmission. Not encrypted. Not even a voice. Just a code.

EXECUTE ORDER 66.

His blood ran cold. His HUD flickered with new directives. Jedi. Traitors. Terminate.

The message repeated. Execute Order 66.

Cody didn’t move.

The other clones around him began shifting. One of them called his name. “Commander?”

He didn’t answer. His mind spiraled. Her face. The Mandalorian woman who used to train him, who used to wipe the grime off his cheek and tell him, “You are not just a weapon. You are my boy.”

Her voice echoed in him now like a ghost:

“You will always be my little boys, even when you stand taller than me in armor. And if the day ever comes where someone tells you to kill without question, I hope you remember my voice first.”

Cody clenched his fists.

“Commander?” one of the troopers asked again, this time louder. “Do we engage?”

Kenobi was on his lizard mount—heading toward the surface. A perfect target.

His hand hovered over the detonator for the cannon.

Seconds ticked by.

The image of her again. Singing in the dark barracks. That lullaby.

He pressed the detonator.

The explosion lit up the sinkhole. The beast howled. Kenobi fell.

And Cody’s heart shattered.

He stood still for a long time after. Staring at the smoke.

⸻

In the deep, dark of her cell, she stopped humming.

Something had happened. She felt it in her bones. Her chest tightened. Her hands gripped the bench beneath her.

She didn’t know what—but something had been taken from her.

⸻

Time doesn’t pass in the depths of the detention block. It congeals.

She could hear whispers. Whispers of something terrible—distant screams in the lower levels, the echo of warships streaking overhead. Something had shifted in the galaxy’s bones. She felt it like a tremor in her own marrow.

And then she stopped feeling them.

Her boys.

One by one, their presence—so familiar to her soul, so deeply tethered it was like knowing the beat of her own heart—disappeared. Or worse, went quiet.

She pressed her forehead against the cell wall, trying to reach them. Neyo. Bacara. Rex. Wolffe. Fox. Cody.

Gone.

The humming in her throat died.

⸻

The sound of boots. Precise. Purposeful. Too many.

She stood, slow and cautious.

The door opened with a mechanical hiss. Blue light spilled into the room. And standing at the threshold was him—his face now ruined and blistered, cloaked in shadow and power.

Chancellor Palpatine. No. Sidious.

Behind him stood Commander Fox—helmet off, his face pale, unreadable, strained.

“Such loyalty,” Sidious said softly. “Even when betrayed.”

She stepped forward, fists clenched. “What do you want?”

“I came to honor our… agreement. The clones, your precious sons—they have served their purpose, as you have served yours.”

Her voice dropped into a snarl. “You said they’d have freedom. You said they’d be safe.”

“I said they’d be prepared.” A smirk curled on his ruined face. “But of course… that was never truly your concern, was it? You needed a purpose. A legacy. And now, dear Mandalorian, you have it. A galaxy reborn—on the backs of your sons.”

Fox flinched.

He stepped forward, but she noticed the twitch in his jaw, the tremble in his hand as it hovered near his sidearm. His face was tight, like something inside was breaking—trying to claw its way to the surface.

She looked at him, pleading. “Fox. Ori’vod. Don’t let him do this to you.”

His eyes flickered.

“She’s in on it,” Sidious said softly, as if coaxing a child. “She knew. From the beginning. The Mandalorian woman you trusted, who called you her son. She helped me create this.”

Fox’s breath caught, his expression cracked, raw confusion blooming in his face like a wound. He looked at her—searching, desperate.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he whispered. “Tell me you didn’t… help him.”

Her voice cracked like old armor. “I didn’t know what he truly was… not until it was too late.”

Sidious spoke before she could continue. “But she stayed, Fox. She trained you for this. The weapon she made you into—was always meant to serve me.”

Fox shook his head. “You said you’d protect us. You said we were yours.”

Tears stung her eyes as she reached for him, but the guards raised their rifles.

“You still are,” she whispered. “Always.”

Fox turned away—ashamed, broken.

Sidious gave her one last look. “You should be proud. Few in this galaxy will ever shape destiny like you have. You created the perfect soldiers. And now, they belong to me.”

The doors closed behind him. Fox didn’t look back.

She dropped to her knees, hollow.

She had trained them to survive.

She never thought she’d have to teach them how to remember.

⸻

There were whispers again.

But these weren’t the trembling rumors of war—no, this was fear, crawling in hushed voices down the sterile white corridors of the detention center. The woman in cell 2187 was gone.

No signs of a breach. No weapons found. Just a sealed door… and an empty room.

She moved through the shadows of the lower levels like a ghost—her armor no longer Mandalorian, not Imperial, just black and scorched, a patchwork of memory and rebellion. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sharper than they’d ever been.

She was dying.

Not from wounds, not yet. But from the weight of betrayal. Of knowing her boys—her sons—were now weapons in the hands of the monster she once served in ignorance.

She wouldn’t allow it any longer.

She struck at twilight.

No theatrics. No grand speech. Just steel and flame.

Explosions ripped through the senante’s lower levels, drawing troopers away as she ascended through emergency lift shafts and ancient, forgotten maintenance passages. Her body ached—wounds reopening, muscles screaming—but her purpose burned hotter than pain.

When she finally reached the Emperor’s chamber, she didn’t hesitate.

She threw the door open, weapons drawn—

Only to find the air grow colder.

And him standing there.

A towering shadow of rage and machinery—Darth Vader.

She didn’t know who he was—not truly. Just another nightmare conjured by Sidious.

“You will not touch him,” Vader intoned, voice as deep and hollow as a tomb.

She snarled, gripping her blades. “You’re just another puppet.”

She attacked.

It wasn’t a fight. It was a last stand.

She darted, spun, struck—but he was relentless. Her blades sparked against his armor, and the lightsaber was a streak of red death in the air. He disarmed her in seconds, crushing one blade in his fist, the other sent clattering to the floor.

But she didn’t stop.

She grabbed a vibroknife from her boot and lunged—screaming the names of her sons.

And then—nothing.

The red blade pierced through her chest.

She staggered, eyes wide, choking on the air.

Vader held her there, impaled, silent.

“I was their mother,” she rasped. “They were mine.”

“You are nothing now,” he said coldly—and let her fall.

⸻

News spread in whispers—first in shadowy halls of high command, then quietly through encrypted clone comm channels.

They all heard it.

Commander Cody, stationed at an outer rim garrison, held the news report in shaking hands. The woman he once saw as indestructible—his buir—was gone. Killed by the Empire she had once served, the same one that had twisted him.

He didn’t cry.

But he didn’t speak for days.

Commander Wolffe, stoic and silent, slammed his fist into the wall of his quarters hard enough to fracture the durasteel. When his men asked what happened, he said nothing. He only muttered her name once, like a prayer, like a curse.

Fox, still on Coruscant, didn’t speak to anyone. He stood outside her former cell, empty now, silent. The humming he once hated hearing was gone. So was the warmth behind it.

He had made the report. He had confirmed her corpse.

And when no one was looking, he put a small knife through the wall of the Emperor’s propaganda poster.

And Rex.

Rex sat alone on a quiet, forgotten moon. Hiding. Free.

He listened to the old lullaby once more, from a broken recording tucked into his armor.

He didn’t move for hours.

He just let it play.

Her voice—soft, ancient, loving.

Their buir… was gone.

But the fire she left behind—still burned in all of them.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

“My Boys, My Warriors” pt.2

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly)

⸻

The lights didn’t feel as warm.

Maybe they never had been.

But after she left, the halls of Tipoca City felt hollow in a different way. Like the soul had been scraped out of them. Like they were just walls and water and cold metal now.

Jango Fett resumed full-time oversight of their training. And if the Kaminoans had wanted detachment, they got it in him.

No singing. No softness.

No one tucked in their blankets when they were feverish or whispered old Mandalorian stories when they had nightmares about being expendable.

They still trained hard. But now the bruises were deeper. The reprimands sharper. There was no one to tell the Kaminoans no.

No one to put a gentle hand on a trembling shoulder and say, “You’re not just a copy. You’re mine.”

Jango didn’t speak much during drills. His corrections came in clipped Mando’a, and his disapproval was silent, sharp, and heavy.

He wasn’t cruel. But he was hard.

Cody adjusted first. He always did. He kept his head down, corrected the younger ones, mirrored Jango’s movements until they were perfect.

Rex stopped smiling as much.

Fox picked more fights—quick, aggressive scraps in the barracks or the showers. He never started them. But he finished them.

Wolffe snapped at the medics when they didn’t move fast enough for Bacara’s healing leg. He’d never snapped at anyone before.

Bacara, for his part, tried to push through the pain, even when his knee buckled mid-sprint. He’d learned from you that strength wasn’t silence—it was persistence. But without you, his quiet stubbornness started to look more like self-destruction.

Neyo went the other direction. Withdrawn. Robotic. Like if he just became what the Kaminoans wanted, they’d leave him alone.

Only Bly still held onto that spark—but even he was getting quieter at night.

The nights were the worst.

No singing. No soft leather footsteps. No warm hand brushing their hair back when they thought no one noticed they were crying.

Fox tried to hum one of your lullabies once. It broke halfway through, cracked like a bad transmitter.

He punched the wall until Rex pulled him back.

“She wouldn’t have let them treat us like this.”

That was what Bly said one night, sitting up in his bunk with his legs swinging. His armor was off. His face was raw with exhaustion and anger.

“She’d be fighting them,” Rex agreed. “Hell, she’d be knocking skulls together.”

“She never would’ve let that training droid keep hitting Bacara while he was down,” Neyo muttered, staring at the ceiling.

Fox was pacing. “They made her leave. Like she didn’t matter.”

“She mattered,” Wolffe growled. “She was everything.”

“She said we were hers,” Cody whispered. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

They all looked at him.

“She meant it.” His voice cracked. “Didn’t she?”

“Of course she did,” Bacara rasped from his bunk. “That’s why they got rid of her.”

There was silence for a long time.

Then Rex stood up and walked to the comm wall. Quietly, carefully, he rewired the input and accessed the hidden channel she’d taught them—one she said to only use when they really needed her.

He didn’t send a message.

He just played the recording.

A static-tinged echo of her voice filled the barracks. Singing. The old lullaby—Altamaha-ha—crackling like it was underwater, like it had traveled galaxies to reach them.

The boys sat. Still. Silent.

Listening.

⸻

The rain on Kamino hadn’t changed in all these years. Same grey wash across the transparisteel windows. Same endless waves pounding the sea like war drums.

But inside the hangars—inside the ready bays—everything had changed.

Your boys weren’t boys anymore.

They were men now. Soldiers. Commanders. Helmets under their arms, armor polished, their unit numbers etched into the plastoid like banners. The Republic had come, and the war had begun.

The Battle of Geonosis was just hours away.

Rex adjusted the strap on his shoulder plate, glancing sideways at Bly.

“You ready for this?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” Bly said, but his grin was tight.

Bacara checked his weapon, pausing briefly when the scar on his knee twinged. He never spoke of that injury anymore. But Cody still remembered.

Fox said nothing, helmet already locked in place.

Wolffe kept fidgeting with his gauntlet, the way he did when he was angry but didn’t want to talk about it.

Neyo leaned silently against the wall, eyes distant, barely blinking.

They were leaving. And she wasn’t here.

Cody stood apart from them, watching the gunships being prepped for launch. He wasn’t on the deployment list for Geonosis. His unit was to remain on Kamino. He told himself he wasn’t bitter. But he was.

He wanted to go. To fight beside them. To see what all this training was truly for.

And to make her proud.

But maybe this was his final lesson—to be the one who stayed behind, to remember.

⸻

Cody blinked, eyes snapping back to the hangar.

Rex was helping Bacara up the ramp of one of the LAAT gunships. Bly and Fox followed, barking orders to their squads. Wolffe paused and glanced back at Cody. Just once.

They didn’t say goodbye.

But they nodded. Like brothers. Like sons.

Cody stood alone as the gunships roared to life, lifting off in waves. The lights dimmed as they rose into the storm, swallowed by the clouds, by war, by the future.

And then they were gone.

She wasn’t there to see them off.

Wasn’t there to adjust their pauldrons, or whisper a quiet prayer to whatever gods had ever watched Mandalorians bleed.

Wasn’t there to call them her boys.

But they carried her with them anyway.

In the way they moved. The way they protected each other. The way they looked fear in the eye and didn’t flinch.

They were ready.

She’d made sure of that.

⸻

The stars had always looked sharper from Mandalore’s moon. Colder. Brighter. Less filtered through the atmosphere of diplomacy and pacifism.

She stood at the edge of the cliffs, cloak billowing behind her, hand resting on the hilt of her beskad. Her home was carved into the rock behind her—simple, hidden, lonely. She liked it that way.

Or… she used to.

Now, the silence grated.

The galaxy was changing again.

And this time, she wasn’t in it.

Not yet.

The sound of approaching engines echoed across the canyon long before the ship touched down. Sleek, dark, familiar.

She didn’t move. Just watched as the vessel landed and the ramp lowered.

He came alone.

Pre Vizsla.

Always so sure of himself. Always dressed like a shadow wearing Mandalorian iron.

“You’re hard to find,” he said, stepping toward her.

“You weren’t invited,” she replied, voice cool.

He smiled. “I come bearing opportunity.”

She didn’t return the smile. “You’ve come trying to recruit me again.”

“I’ve come with timing,” he corrected. “War has returned to the galaxy. The Jedi are distracted. And Satine—your beloved Duchess—still preaches peace while Mandalore rots from the inside out.”

She said nothing.

“I saw what you did with the clones,” he added, tone shifting. “You made them warriors. Not just soldiers. You made them believe they were worth something.”

“They are worth something.”

Vizsla tilted his head. “Then come and fight for your own.”

She turned, eyes burning. “Don’t mistake my silence for agreement, Pre.”

“Mistake your inaction for cowardice, then?”

He was testing her. Like he always did. And damn him, it was working.

⸻

She sat in her home, beskar laid out before her. She hadn’t worn full armor in years. Just enough to train, to spar. Not to fight.

Not since they’d made her leave Kamino.

Not since her boys.

The comm receiver sat in the corner. Quiet. Dead.

No messages. No voices. No lullabies.

She lit a flame in the hearth and sat with her old weapons. Blades, rifles, her battered vambraces. Things that had seen more blood than most soldiers ever would.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her helmet.

Was Mandalore dying?

Was she wrong to have left?

She remembered standing before the boys—tiny, stubborn, brilliant. Shouting orders in the training halls. Singing when they couldn’t sleep. Watching them grow. Watching them become.

She wasn’t there to protect them now. To protect anyone.

Satine’s voice echoed in her memory—“The cycle of violence must end.”

But Satine didn’t raise a thousand sons who were bred for war.

At dawn, she returned to the cliffs.

Vizsla was still there. Camped nearby. Waiting.

She stood beside his ship, helmet under one arm, braid coiled tight behind her.

“Don’t think I believe in your cause,” she said.

“You’re still here,” he replied.

“I’m here for Mandalore.”

“Then we want the same thing.”

“No,” she said, stepping onto the ramp. “We don’t. But I’ll fight. I’ll watch. If Mandalore can be saved, I’ll make sure it is. And if you try to burn it down—”

“You’ll kill me?”

“I’ll bury you.”

⸻

Unbeknownst to her, far across the galaxy, in a Republic base camp on Geonosis, Rex opened his comm receiver.

A soft blinking light glowed.

Encrypted channel. The one she’d taught them.

A message was sent.

No words. Just a ping. A heartbeat.

She would know what it meant.

They were alive.

They were fighting.

And somewhere in her gut, on that cold moon, she felt it.

⸻

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

“My Boys, My Warriors”

Clone Commanders x Reader (Platonic/Motherly) pt.1

Song: “Altamaha-Ha” – Olivier Devriviere & Stacey Subero

Setting: Kamino, pre-Clone Wars, training the clone commanders

A/N - I thought I would give the clones some motherly love because they absolutely deserve it.

⸻

Arrival

Kamino was a graveyard floating on water. Not one built from bones or tombstones, but of silence and steel, of sterile white walls and cloned futures.

You arrived at dawn—or what passed for dawn here, beneath an endless, thunderstruck sky. The rain hit your Beskar like a thousand tiny fists, relentless and cold. There was no welcome party. No ceremony. Just a hangar platform soaked in wind and spray, and one familiar silhouette waiting for you like a ghost from your past.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” Jango Fett said, arms crossed, armor dulled by salt and time.

“You asked,” you answered, stepping off the transport. “And Mandalorians don’t abandon their own.”

He gave a small, tired nod. “This place… it’s not what I wanted it to be.”

You followed him through the elevated corridors, your bootfalls echoing alongside his. You passed clone infants in incubation pods—unmoving, unaware—lined up like products, not people. Your throat tightened.

“Kaminoans see them as assets,” he muttered. “Nothing more.”

You scowled. “And you?”

Jango didn’t answer.

You didn’t need him to. That was why you were here.

⸻

Training the Future Commanders

They were just boys.

Tiny, sharp-eyed, disciplined—but boys nonetheless. They saluted when they saw you, confused by your armor, your presence, your refusal to speak in the Kaminoan-approved tone.

“Are you another handler?” one asked—Cody, maybe, even then with that skeptical glare.

“No,” you replied, removing your helmet, letting your war-worn face meet theirs. “I’m a warrior. And I’m here to make you warriors. The kind Kamino can’t mold. The kind no one can break.”

At first, they didn’t trust you. Fox flinched when you corrected his form. Bly mimicked your movements but refused eye contact. Rex tried to impress you too much, like a pup desperate to please.

But over time, that changed.

You didn’t teach them like the Kaminoans did. You taught them like they mattered. Every mistake was a lesson. Every success, a celebration. You learned their quirks—how Wolffe grumbled when he was nervous, how Cody chewed the inside of his cheek when strategizing, how Bly stared too long at the sky, longing for something even he couldn’t name.

They grew under your care. They grew into theirs.

And somewhere along the line, the title changed.

“Buir,” Rex said one day, barely a whisper.

You froze.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, flustered. “I didn’t mean—”

But you crouched and ruffled his hair, voice thick. “No. I like it.”

After that, the name stuck.

⸻

The Way You Loved Them

You taught them how to fight, yes. But also how to think, how to feel. You made them memorize the stars, not just coordinates. You forced them to sit in circles and talk when they lost a training sim—why they failed, what it meant.

“You are not cannon fodder,” you said once, your voice carrying through the sparring hall. “You are sons of Mandalore. You are mine. You will not die for a Republic that won’t mourn you. You will survive. Together.”

They believed you. And because they believed, they began to believe in themselves.

⸻

Singing in the Dark

Late at night, when the Kaminoans powered down the lights and the labs buzzed quiet, you slipped into the barracks. They were small again in those moments—curled under grey blankets, limbs tangled, some still holding training rifles in their sleep.

You never planned to sing. It started one night when Bly woke from a nightmare, gasping for air, tears clinging to his lashes. You held him, like a child—because he was one—and without thinking, you sang.

“Slumber, child, slumber, and dream, dream, dream

Let the river carry you back to me

Dream, my baby, 'cause

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

The melody, foreign and low, drifted over the bunks like a lullaby born from the sea itself. It wasn’t Mandalorian. It was older. From your mother, perhaps, or her mother before her. It didn’t matter.

Soon, the others began to stir at the sound—some sitting up, listening. Some quietly pretending to still be asleep.

You sang to them until the rain outside became less frightening. Until their eyes closed again.

And after that, you kept doing it.

⸻

The Warning

“Don’t get in their way,” Jango warned one night as you stood by the viewing glass, watching your boys spar in the simulator below. “The Kaminoans. They won’t like it.”

“They already don’t,” you muttered. “I’ve seen the way they talk about them. Subjects. Tests. Like they’re things.”

“They are things to them,” he said. “And if you make too much noise, you’ll be the next thing they discard.”

You turned to face him, cold fury in your chest. “Then let them try.”

He didn’t push further. Maybe because he knew—deep down—he couldn’t stop you either.

⸻

Kamino was all rain and repetition. It pounded the platform windows like war drums, never letting up, a constant rhythm that seeped into the bones. But inside the training complex, your boys—your commanders—were becoming weapons. And they were doing it with teeth bared.

You ran them hard. Harder than the Kaminoans would’ve allowed. You forced them to fight one-on-one until they bled, then patch each other up. You made them run drills in full gear until even Fox, the most stubborn of them, nearly passed out. But you also cooked for them when they succeeded. You gave them downtime when they earned it. You let them joke, laugh, fight like brothers.

And they were brothers. Every one of them.

“You hit like a Jawa,” Neyo grunted, dodging a blow from Bacara.

“At least I don’t look like one,” Bacara shot back, swinging his training staff with a grunt.

The others laughed from the sidelines. Cody leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. Rex and Fox were trading bets in whispers.

“Credits on Neyo,” Bly muttered, grinning. “He’s wiry.”

“You’re all idiots,” Wolffe growled. “Bacara’s been waiting to punch him since last week.”

You let them have their moment. You sat on the edge of the platform, helmet off, watching them like a mother bird daring anyone to touch her nest.

The sparring match turned fast. Bacara landed a hit to Neyo’s ribs—but Neyo pivoted and brought his staff down hard across Bacara’s knee. There was a loud crack. Bacara cried out and dropped.

The laughter died.

You were at his side in an instant, shouting for a med droid even as you crouched beside him, checking his leg. His face was twisted in pain, jaw clenched to keep from crying out again.

“It’s just a fracture,” the Kaminoan tech said from above, indifferent. “He’ll heal.”

You glared up at them. “He’s not just a number. He’s a kid.”

“They are not—”

“He is mine,” you snapped, standing between Bacara and the tech. “And if I hear one more word from your sterile little mouth, I will see how fast you bleed.”

The Kaminoan backed away.

You turned back to Bacara, softer now. Your hand brushed the sweat from his brow.

“Deep breaths, cyar’ika. You’re alright.”

He tried to speak, teeth gritted. “I’m—fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said gently, voice warm but firm. “And you don’t have to pretend for me.”

The other boys were quiet. They had seen broken bones, sure. But not softness like this. Not someone kneeling beside one of them with care in her eyes.

You stayed by Bacara’s side while the medics patched him up. You held his hand when they set the bone, and he let you.

Later, when he was tucked into his bunk with his leg in a brace, you sat beside him and hummed. Just softly. The rain tapping the window, your voice somewhere between a lullaby and a promise.

He didn’t cry. But he did sleep.

⸻

You didn’t just teach them how to fight. You taught them how to live—how to survive.

You made them argue tactical problems around a dinner table. You made them learn each other’s tells—so they could watch each other’s backs on the battlefield. You made them memorize where the Kaminoans kept the override chips, in case something ever went wrong.

You never said why, but they trusted you.

And sometimes, they’d tease one another just to make you laugh.

“You’re so slow, Wolffe,” Bly groaned, flopping onto the floor after a run. “It’s like watching a Star Destroyer try to jog.”

“You want to say that to my face?” Wolffe growled, looming.

“No thanks,” Bly wheezed. “My ribs still remember last week.”

Fox tossed him a ration bar. “Eat up, drama queen.”

Rex smirked. “You’re all mouth, Fox.”

“I will end you, rookie.”

“Boys,” you interrupted, raising a brow. “If you have enough energy to whine, I clearly didn’t run you hard enough.”

Groans. Laughter. Playful swearing.

“Ten more laps,” you added, smiling.

Cries of “Nooo, buir!” echoed down the corridor.

⸻

When You Sang

Sometimes they asked for it. Sometimes they didn’t need to.

The song came when things were too quiet—after a nightmare, after a long day, after they’d lost a spar or a brother.

You’d walk between their bunks, singing low as the rain hit the glass.

“Last night under bright strange stars

We left behind the men that caged you and me

Runnin' toward a promise land

Mama will be there in the mornin'”

They’d pretend not to be listening. But you’d see it—the way Rex’s fists unclenched, how Neyo’s brow relaxed, how Wolffe finally let himself close his eyes.

You knew, deep down, you were raising boys for slaughter.

But you’d be damned if they didn’t feel loved before they went.

⸻

The sterile corridors of Tipoca City echoed beneath your boots. Even when the halls were silent, you could feel the Kaminoans’ eyes—watchful, cold, and calculating. They didn’t like you here. Not anymore.

When you’d first arrived, brought in under Jango’s word and credentials, they’d accepted your presence as a utility—an expert warrior to train the Alpha batch. But lately? You were a complication. You cared too much.

And they didn’t like complications.

⸻

The Meeting

You stood at attention in front of Lama Su and Taun We. The pale lights above made your armor gleam. You didn’t bow. You didn’t smile.

“You were observed interfering with medical protocol,” Lama Su said, his voice devoid of emotion. “This is not within your designated parameters.”

“One of my boys was hurt,” you said flatly.

“He is a clone. Replaceable. As they all are.”

Your fists curled at your sides.

“Do not forget your role,” Lama Su continued. “Your methods are not standard. Excessive independence. Emotional entanglement. Your presence disrupts efficiency.”

You stepped forward, slowly, deliberately. “You want soldiers who’ll die for you. I’m giving you soldiers who’ll choose to fight. There’s a difference. One that matters.”

There was a pause, then:

“You were not created for this program,” Lama Su said with quiet disapproval. “Do not overestimate your position.”

You didn’t respond.

You simply turned and walked out.

⸻

He was waiting for you in the observation room overlooking Training Sector 3. The boys were down there—Cody and Fox were running scenario drills, Rex was lining up shots on a target range, Bly was tossing insults at Neyo while dodging training droids.

They didn’t see you. But watching them moved something fierce and dangerous in your chest.

Jango spoke without looking at you. “They’re getting strong.”

“They’re getting better,” you corrected.

He turned to face you, arms folded, helm clipped to his belt. “You’re making them soft.”

You scoffed. “You don’t believe that.”

A beat. “No,” he admitted. “But the Kaminoans do.”

You shrugged. “Let them.”

“You’re pissing them off.”

You turned your head, met his gaze with something sharp and sad in your eyes. “They treat these kids like hardware. Tools. Like you’re the only one who matters.”

“I am the template,” he said, with a ghost of a smile.

“They’re more than your copies,” you said. “They’re people.”

Jango studied you for a long moment. Then his voice dropped. “They’re going to start pushing back, ner vod. On you. Hard.”

You looked back down at the boys. Bacara was limping slightly—still healing—but still trying to prove himself.

You exhaled slowly, then said, “I’m not leaving.”

“They’ll make you.”

“Not until they’re ready.”

Jango shook his head. “That might never happen.”

You glanced at him. “Then I guess I’m staying forever.”

⸻

That night, you sang again.

You walked through the bunks, slow and steady. The boys were half-asleep—worn out from drills, bandaged, bruised, but safe. Their expressions softened when you passed by. Neyo, usually tense, had his arms thrown over his head in peaceful surrender. Bly was snoring into his pillow. Bacara’s fingers were still wrapped around the edge of his blanket, leg elevated, but his face was calm.

You stood at the center of the dorm, lowered your voice, and sang like the sea itself had whispered the melody to you.

“Trust nothin' and no one in this strange, strange land

Be a mouse and do not use your voice

River tore us apart, but I'm not too far 'cause

Mama will be there in thе mornin'”

Somewhere behind you, a voice murmured, “We’re glad you didn’t leave, buir.”

You didn’t turn to see who said it.

You just kept singing.

⸻

They didn’t even look you in the eye when they handed you the dismissal.

Lama Su’s voice was as flat and clinical as ever. “Your assignment to the training program is concluded, effective immediately. A transport will arrive within the hour.”

No discussion. No room for argument. Just sterile words and sterile reasoning.

“Why?” you asked, though you already knew.

Taun We’s expression didn’t change. “Your attachment to the clones is counterproductive. It encourages instability. Disobedience.”

You laughed bitterly. “Disobedience? They’d die for you, and you don’t even know their names.”

“You’ve served your purpose.”

You stepped forward. “No. I haven’t. They’re not ready.”

“They are sufficient for combat deployment.”

You stared at them, ice in your veins. “Sufficient,” you repeated. “You mean disposable.”

“You are dismissed.”

⸻

You packed slowly.

Your hands were steady, but your heart roared like it used to back on Mandalore, in the heart of battle. That same ache. That same helplessness, standing in front of something too big to fight, and realizing you still had to try.

You left behind your bunk, your wall of messy holos and scraps of training reports scrawled in shorthand. You left behind a half-written lullaby tucked under your cot. But you took your armor.

You always took your armor.

You were nearly done when a voice cut through the door.

“Can I come in?”

It was Cody.

You didn’t turn around. “Door’s open.”

He stepped in quietly, glancing around the room like it was sacred ground. You saw his hands twitch slightly—he never fidgeted. But tonight, he was restless.

“They told us you were leaving,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real until he said it out loud. “Why?”

“Because I care too much,” you said simply.

Cody sat down on your footlocker, elbows on his knees. His eyes were dark, searching.

“What happens to us now?”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. He was trying to hold it together. He always had to—he was the eldest in a way, the natural leader. But underneath it, you saw the boy. The child.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

You walked over and sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his.

“No,” you said. “You’re not.”

That hit him harder than comfort might have.

“But,” you added, “you’re as ready as you can be. You’ve got the training. The instincts. You’ve got each other.”

Cody was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I’m scared.”

You nodded. “Good. So was I. Every time I stepped onto a battlefield, I was scared.”

His eyes flicked to you in surprise.

You gave a soft huff of breath. “You think Mandalorians don’t feel fear? We feel it more. We just learn to carry it.”

He looked down. “What was your war like?”

You leaned back slightly, staring at the ceiling.

“I fought on the burning sands of Sundari’s borders, in the mines, the wastelands. I’ve lost friends to blade and blaster, to poison and betrayal. I’ve heard the war drums shake the skies and still gone forward, knowing I’d never see the next sunrise. And when it was over…” You paused, bitter. “The warriors were banished.”

Cody frowned. “Banished?”

You nodded. “The new regime—pacifists. Duchess Satine. She took the throne, and we were cast off. Sent to the moon. All the heroes of Mandalore… left behind like rusted armor.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed. “But that’s war. You don’t always get a homecoming.”

He was silent, digesting it.

Then you said, more gently, “But you do get to decide who you are in it. And after it. If there’s an after.”

Cody’s voice cracked just a little. “You were our home.”

You turned to him, and for the first time, let him see the tears brimming in your eyes. “You still are.”

You pulled him into a hug—tight, armor creaking, like the world might tear you both apart if you let go.

⸻

You walked through the training hall one last time. Your boys were all there, lined up, watching you.

Silent.

Even the Kaminoans didn’t stop you from speaking.

You met each pair of eyes—Wolffe, Fox, Rex, Bacara, Neyo, Bly, Cody.

“My warriors,” you said softly, “you were never mine to keep. But you were mine to love. And you still are.”

You stepped forward, placed your hand on Cody’s shoulder, then moved down the line, touching each one like a prayer.

“Be strong. Be smart. Be good to each other. And remember: no matter what anyone says… you are not property. You are brothers.”

You left without turning back.

Because if you did—you wouldn’t have left at all.

Part 2

“Command and Consequence pt.2”

Fox x reader x Wolffe

⸻

She wasn’t just their trainer. She was the trainer. The hard-ass Mandalorian bounty hunter who whipped the clone cadets into shape, showed them how to survive, and maybe, quietly, showed them something like love.

They weren’t supposed to fall for her.

She wasn’t supposed to leave.

But they did. And she did.

Now she’s back—in chains. On trial. And neither of them has forgiven her. But neither of them has stopped feeling, either.

⸻

Wolffe was gone.

Off to a frontline somewhere, chasing a ghost on someone else’s leash. He hadn’t said goodbye. Just stood in her cell, said her name like it tasted like blood, and left.

She told herself it didn’t sting.

Told herself that right up until the door hissed open again.

This time, it was him.

Fox.

She felt him before she saw him—every hair on the back of her neck standing at attention. She didn’t lift her head until she heard the soft clink of his boots on the duracrete.

“You always did have the heaviest damn footsteps.”

No answer.

Just the soft hum of the ray shield between them and the weight of six years of unfinished conversations.

She sat back against the wall of her cell, tilting her head to study him through the barrier. “You used to take your helmet off when you saw me.”

Fox didn’t move.

“You smiled, too,” she added. “Even blushed once.”

Still nothing.

She leaned forward. “Why don’t you take it off now, Fox? Scared I’ll see what I did to you?”

That one hit.

His shoulders shifted. Just enough.

“I loved you both,” she said, voice softer. “You and Wolffe. It wasn’t just training. You know that.”

“You walked away.”

“I had to.”

“No,” Fox said, voice hard behind the visor. “You chose to. We needed you. And you ran.”

He stepped closer to the shield.

“You trained us to survive, to lead, to kill. You were everything. You looked at us like we were people before anyone else ever did. And then you were gone. No note. No goodbye. Just gone.”

She stood now. Toe to toe with him on opposite sides of the shield.

“Don’t pretend like it was easy for me.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Fox bit out. “But every time I close my eyes, I see the cadet barracks. I see you, pulling us out of bed, making us fight through mud and stun blasts and live fire. And every time I put this helmet on, I remember the woman who made me who I am.”

“And you hate her now?”

“No,” he said, almost too quiet.

“I wish I did.”

The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was heavy, loud, aching.

Then the lights flickered. Once. Twice.

Fox’s helmet snapped up.

“You planning something?” he demanded.

She blinked, surprised. “Not me.”

An explosion rocked the building.

Fox swore and turned toward the hall—too late.

The backup power cut in, and the shield between them dropped.

She moved first.

Elbow. Throat. Disarm.

Fox recovered instantly. Mandalorian training burned into his bones—her training.

They fought dirty. Brutal. No flourish. No wasted motion. Just rage and history and sweat.

He slammed her into the wall, forearm to her neck. “Don’t—”

She headbutted him. “Too late.”

He threw her to the ground. She rolled, kicked out, caught his knee. He staggered. She was up in an instant, swinging.

He caught her wrist. “You left us.”

She broke the hold, breathless. “And you never stopped loving me.”

That cracked him.

She tackled him.

They hit the floor hard.

His helmet came loose, skittering across the ground.

And for a heartbeat—

There he was.

Fox.

Red-faced. Bloodied lip. Eyes blazing with pain and love and fury.

He flipped her. Pinned her down.

“This is what you wanted?” he growled. “To be hunted? To fight me?”

“No,” she whispered. “But I’m not dying in a cell.”

Her elbow caught his jaw. He reeled. She moved fast, straddling him, fist raised—

And paused.

Just for a second.

He looked up at her like she was the sun and the storm.

So she closed her fist.

And knocked him out cold.

⸻

She ran.

Again.

Bleeding. Gasping. Free.

But not the same.

Not anymore.

Because this time, she left something behind.

And it wasn’t just her past.

It was him.

⸻

(Flashback - Kamino)

It was raining.

Then again, it was always raining on Kamino.

She stood in the simulation room, arms crossed, helmet tucked under one arm, a long line of adolescent clones in front of her. Twelve cadets. Identical on the outside. Nervous. Curious. Eager.

She hated this part. The part where they still looked like kids.

She paced down the line like a wolf sizing up prey. They were still, silent, disciplined.

Good.

But she could already see it—the cracks, the personality slipping through despite their efforts to appear identical. That one on the end with the defiant chin tilt. The one in the middle hiding a limp. The one watching her like he already didn’t trust her.

She knew it the second they marched in—twelve cadets, lean and lethal for their age. Sharper than the usual shinies. These weren’t grunts-in-the-making. These were the Commanders. The ones Kamino’s high brass whispered about like they were investments more than soldiers.

She smirked. “You all have CT numbers. Serial designations. Statistics.”

No one spoke.

She dropped her helmet onto a nearby crate and leaned forward. “That’s not enough for me.”

Eyes tracked her, alert.

“You want to earn my respect? You survive this program, you get through my gauntlet? You don’t just get to be soldiers. You get to be people. And people need names.”

A flicker of something passed between them—confusion, curiosity, maybe even hope.

“But I don’t hand them out like sweets. Names have weight. You’ll earn yours. One by one.”

She paused.

“And I won’t name you like some shiny ARC trainer handing out joke callsigns for laughs. Your name will be the first thing someone hears before they die. Make it count.”

“You survive my program, you’ll earn a name,” she said. “A real one. Something from the old worlds. Something that means something. Not because you need a nickname to feel special—because names have teeth. They bite. They leave a scar.”

The silence was sharp. But the room listened.

The first week nearly broke them.

She saw it in their bruised knuckles, in the fire behind their eyes. None of them quit.

So she came in holding a data slate. Her list.

“CT-2224,” she said, nodding to the clone who was always coordinating, always calm under fire. “I’m calling you Cody.”

A pause.

“Named after an old soldier from history. Scout, tactician, survivor. He fought under another man’s flag but always kept his own code. You? You’ll know when to follow and when to break the chain.”

CT-2224 tilted his chin, something like pride in his eyes.

“CT-1004,” she called next. “Gree.”

He quirked a brow.

“Named after an Astronomer. A mind ahead of his time. You like to challenge the rules. You think differently. That’ll get you killed—or it’ll save your whole damn battalion. Your call.”

He smirked.

“CT-6052,” she said, turning to the one with the fastest draw in the sim tests. “Bly.”

“Bly?” he echoed.

“Named after a naval officer. Brutal. Unrelenting. Survived mutinies and shipwrecks. Your squad will challenge you someday. You’ll either lead them through the storm—or end up alone.”

He went quiet.

“CT-1138.” She stepped toward the quietest of the bunch. “Bacara.”

That got his attention.

“Name’s from an old warrior sect,” she said. “Real bastard in the heat of battle. No fear, no hesitation. You’ve got that in you—but you’ll need something to tether you. Rage alone won’t get you far.”

“CT-8826,” she barked. “Neyo.”

He didn’t flinch.

“Named after a colonial general in a lost war. Known for precision and cruelty in equal measure. You fight with cold logic. That’s useful. But one day it’s going to cost you something you didn’t know you valued.”

His stare didn’t break.

She nodded to herself.

Then she stopped in front of CT-1010.

This one was different. Always stepping in front of the others. Always first into the fire.

“You,” she said. “You’re Fox.”

He tilted his head. Curious. Suspicious.

“Not the animal,” she said. “The man. He tried to blow up a corrupt regime. People remember him as a traitor. But he died for what he believed in. He wanted to burn the world down so something better could rise.”

Fox looked at her like he wasn’t sure whether to be proud or afraid.

Good.

And finally—

CT-3636.

She exhaled. Quiet.

“You’re Wolffe. Spelled with two f’s.”

He arched a brow.

“You ever heard of General Wolffe? He died leading a battle he won. Knew it would kill him. Did it anyway. That’s who you are. You’d die for the ones you lead. But you’re not just a soldier. You’re a ghost in the making. You see things the others don’t.”

Something flickered across Wolffe’s expression. Not quite gratitude. Not yet. But something personal. Something deep.

She stepped back and looked at them all.

“You’re not just commanders now. You’re names with weight. Remember where they come from. Because someday—someone’s going to ask.”

She didn’t say why she chose those names.

But Fox knew.

And Wolffe… Wolffe felt it like a blade between his ribs.

⸻

That night, neither of them slept.

Fox sat on his bunk, staring at the nameplate freshly etched on his chest armor.

Wolffe couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her voice, the precision of her words.

It wasn’t just what she called them.

It was how she saw them.

Not clones.

Not numbers.

Men.

And in that moment—before war, before death, before heartbreak—both of them realized something:

They would have followed her anywhere.

⸻

“Target last seen heading westbound on foot. She’s injured,” Thorn’s voice snapped through the comms, sharp and clear as a vibroblade. “Bleeding. She won’t get far.”

Commander Fox didn’t respond right away.

He didn’t need to.

He was already moving—boots pounding against ferrocrete, crimson armor flashing in the underglow of gutter lights. His DC-17s were hot. Loaded. He’d cleared the last alley by himself. Found the blood trail smeared across a rusted wall. Confirmed it wasn’t fresh. Confirmed she was smart enough to double back.

Fox’s jaw tensed behind the helmet. That voice. That memory. He hated that it still echoed.

He hated what she’d made him feel back then—what she still made him feel now.

“She was ours,” Thorn said suddenly, voice low on a private channel. “She trained us. Named us. And now she’s—”

“A liability,” Fox snapped.

A pause.

Then Thorn said, “So are you.”

She’d been moving for thirty-six hours straight.

Blood caked her gloves. Her ribs were cracked. One eye nearly swollen shut. And still—still—she’d smiled when she saw the Guard flooding the streets for her.

“Miss me, boys?” she whispered, ducking into an old speeder lot, sliding through a maintenance tunnel like she’d been born in the underworld.

Fox was five minutes behind her. Thorn was closer.

She was running out of time.

So she did what she swore she wouldn’t.

She pressed a long-dead frequency into her wrist comm and whispered:

“You still owe me.”

⸻

Fox was waiting for her at the extraction point.

He stood in front of the old freight elevator. Helmet on. Blaster raised. Shoulders squared. He hadn’t spoken in five minutes. Hadn’t moved in ten.

When she limped into view, he didn’t aim. Not yet.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, voice flat.

“You’re still wearing your helmet,” she rasped.

He didn’t answer.

“Why?” she asked. “Why don’t you ever take it off anymore?”

That hit something.

He didn’t move, but the silence that followed was heavier than armor.

“You think if you bury the man I trained, the one I named, then maybe you don’t have to feel what you felt?” she asked, stepping closer. “Or maybe—maybe you think the helmet will stop you from loving the woman you’re supposed to kill.”

Fox raised his blaster.

“I’m not that man anymore.”

“And I’m not the woman who left you behind,” she said.

Then she charged him.

They hit the ground hard.

She drove her elbow into his side, but he blocked it—twisted—slammed her onto the deck. She kicked his knee, flipped him over, caught a glimpse of his face beneath the shifting helmet seal—eyes wild. Angry. Broken.

Their fight wasn’t clean. It wasn’t choreographed.

It was personal.

Every strike was a memory. Every chokehold a betrayal.

She got the upper hand—until Fox caught her wrist, yanked her forward, and headbutted her hard enough to split her lip.

“Stay down,” he growled.

But she was already back on her feet, staggering.

“You first.”

She lunged. He met her.

For one second, he nearly won.

And then—

The roar of repulsors screamed overhead.

A ship—low and mean—swooped in like a vulture. Slave I.

Fox’s head snapped up.

From the cockpit, Boba Fett gave a two-fingered salute.

From the ramp, Bossk snarled: “Hurry up, darlin’. We’re on a timer.”

She spun, landed one final kick to Fox’s side, and leapt.

He caught her foot—just for a second.

Their eyes locked.

She whispered, “You’ll have to be faster than that, Commander.”

Fox’s grip slipped.

She vanished into the belly of the ship.

The ship shot skyward, cutting between the towers of Coruscant, gone in a blink.

Fox lay back on the duracrete, chest heaving, blood in his mouth.

Thorn’s voice crackled in his comm:

“You get her?”

Fox didn’t answer.

He just stared at the sky, helmet still on, and muttered:

“Next time.”

⸻

The hum of hyperspace thrummed through her ribs like a heartbeat she hadn’t trusted in years.

She sat on the edge of the med-bench, wiping blood from her mouth, cheek split open from Fox’s headbutt. Boba threw her a rag without looking.

“You look like shab.”

She gave a low, painful laugh. “Better than dead. Thanks for the pickup.”

Boba didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back in the co-pilot’s chair, helmet off, arms crossed over his chest like a teenager who wasn’t quite ready to say what he meant.

“You could’ve called sooner, you know,” he finally muttered. “Would’ve come faster.”

“I know,” she said, quiet.

Bosk snorted from the cockpit. “Sentimental karkin’ clones. Always needin’ someone to save their shebs.”

She ignored him.

Boba didn’t. “Stow it, lizard.”

After a beat, he glanced back at her. “You’re not going back, are you?”

She didn’t answer.

“You should stay,” Boba said. “The crew’s solid. And you’re… you were like an older sister. On Kamino. When it was just me and those cold halls. You didn’t treat me like a copy.”

That one hit her like a vibroblade to the gut.

“I couldn’t stand seeing your face,” she admitted. “All I saw was Jango.”

He looked away. “Yeah. Well… I am him.”

She stood, stepped over to him, and rested a bruised hand on his shoulder.

“You’re better. You got his spine, his stubbornness. But you’ve got your own code, too. Jango… Jango would’ve left me behind if it suited him. You didn’t.”

He looked at her, lip twitching. “Yeah, well. You trained half the commanders in the GAR. You think I was about to let Fox be the one to kill you?”

She smirked. “Sentimental.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

She moved toward the ramp. “Thank you, Boba. But I can’t stay.”

“You don’t have to run forever.”

“No,” she said, voice thick. “Just long enough to finish what I started.”

And with that, she slipped through the rear hatch, into the wind, into whatever system they dropped her in next.

⸻

Wolffe stood silent, arms folded, helmet tucked under one arm. Thorn sat across from him, jaw tight, armor scraped and bloodied.

Plo Koon entered without fanfare, his robes trailing dust from the Outer Rim.

“You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” the Kel Dor said mildly.

“She might as well be,” Thorn muttered.

“We had her,” Wolffe said. “Fox did. And she slipped through his fingers.”

Plo regarded them both for a long moment.

“I assume there is tension because Fox and Thorn were in charge of the op?”

Wolffe’s jaw tightened.

Thorn spoke first. “She’s dangerous. She’s working with bounty hunters now. It’s only a matter of time before she turns that knife toward the Republic.”

“Perhaps,” Plo murmured, folding his hands. “Or perhaps she is a wounded soldier, betrayed by the very people she once called vode.”

Wolffe’s shoulders stiffened.

“She made her choice,” he said flatly.

“And yet,” Plo said, gently, “I sense hesitation in you, Commander. Pain.”

Wolffe didn’t respond.

“She is off-world now,” the Jedi continued, glancing at a tactical holo. “Potentially aligned with Separatist sympathizers. The Senate will push for her recapture. But I believe it would be wiser… more effective… for the 104th to take point on tracking her.”

Thorn straightened. “The Guard’s been assigned—”

“And you failed,” Plo said, not unkindly. “Let Wolffe try. Perhaps what’s needed now is not more firepower… but familiarity.”

Wolffe met Plo’s gaze. “You’re using this as a chance to fix me.”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Plo corrected. “To understand. To remember who she really is. Not what she became.”

Silence.

Then Wolffe slowly nodded.

“Then I’ll bring her in.”

Plo’s gaze softened beneath his mask.

“Or maybe,” he said, turning to leave, “you’ll let her bring you back.”

⸻

The atmosphere stank like rust and rot. Arix-7 was a graveyard of ships and skeletons—metal, bone, old wreckage from a thousand forgotten battles. The 104th picked through it like wolves in a burial field.

Wolffe moved ahead of the squad, visor low, silent.

Boost sidled up beside him. “You know, this place kinda reminds me of her. Sharp, full of ghosts, and ready to kill you if you step wrong.”

Sinker snorted. “Yeah, but she smelled better.”

“Cut the chatter,” Wolffe growled, tone clipped.

Boost shrugged. “Just saying. Weird to be tracking the person who taught you how to hold a blaster.”

“Worse to be planning how to shoot her,” Sinker added, quieter.

Wolffe didn’t respond.

He just kept moving.

They found her in the remains of a Republic frigate, buried deep in the moon’s crust, converted into a hideout. Cracked floors, scattered gear, a heat signature blinking faint and wounded—but moving.

She knew they were coming.

She was waiting.

⸻

They found her in the wreck of an old Separatist cruiser, rusted deep into the jagged crust of the moon. Sinker and Boost had gone in first—quick, confident, all muscle and old banter. That didn’t save them from being outmaneuvered and knocked out cold.

Wolffe found their unconscious bodies first. And then, her.

She stepped into the light like a shadow peeling off the wall—hood pulled low, face scraped and bloodied but eyes still burning.

“You always send the pups in first?” she asked. “Or were they just stupid enough to come on their own?”

Wolffe charged her without a word.

Hand-to-hand. Just like she trained him.

But she didn’t hold back this time—and neither did he.

She was still faster. Still sharper. Still cruel with her movements, a blade honed by years outside the Republic’s rule.

But Wolffe had strength and control, and he’d stopped pulling punches years ago.

They traded blows. She bloodied his mouth. He cracked her ribs. He pinned her. She slipped free.

Then came him.

The air shifted—sharp with ozone and tension—and suddenly Plo Coon was between them. Calm. Powerful. Alien eyes behind his antiox mask, watching her without familiarity, without sentiment.

“Step down,” Plo said.

She bristled. “Another Jedi. Wonderful. Let me guess—here to ‘redeem’ me?”

“I don’t know you,” Plo answered. “But I know what you’ve done. And I know you were once theirs.”

“I was never yours.”

“Good,” Plo said, igniting his saber. “Then this will be easier.”

They fought.

The air crackled.

She struck first—fast and brutal, close-range, aiming to disable before he could bring the Force to bear. But Plo Coon had fought Sith, droids, beasts. He wasn’t unprepared for feral grace and dirty tricks.

He parried. Dodged. Let her come to him.

“You’re angry,” he said through gritted teeth. “But not lost.”

She lunged. “You don’t know me.”

“No. But I sense your pain. You’re not just running. You’re bleeding.”

“Pain is what’s kept me alive!”

He knocked her off balance, sent her tumbling. She scrambled, but he held her in place with a subtle lift of the hand, the Force pinning her in a crouch.

“Enough,” he said, not unkindly.

She panted, teeth grit, shoulders trembling.

“I don’t know why you left them. I don’t care. I only ask you stop now, before someone dies who doesn’t need to.”

Her gaze flicked past him, to Wolffe—who stood in silence, jaw tight, one eye focused and guarded.

“You Jedi think you know everything,” she hissed. “But you don’t know what it’s like to train them. To love them. And to choose between them.”

That made Plo pause.

“I chose nothing,” she said. “And it still broke them.”

The silence that followed was colder than the void outside.

Plo stared at her for a long moment.

Then, slowly—he stepped back.

Released the Force.

“You’ll run again,” he said, saber still lit. “But I won’t be the one to kill someone trying to hold herself together.”

She blinked.

“You’re… letting me go?”

“I’m giving you a moment,” he said. “What you do with it is yours to answer for.”

Wolffe took a step forward.

Plo stopped him with a look.

“She’s off world. Unarmed. And—” his voice lowered, “—no longer a priority.”

Wolffe’s fists clenched.

She didn’t wait.

She bolted into the wreckage, shadows swallowing her whole. Gone again.

This time, no one followed.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.4

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.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt.3

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.

Commander Fox x Singer/PA Reader pt. 2

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.

---

Title: Command and Consequence

Fox x Reader x Wolffe

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.

Commander Fox x caf shop owner

⸻

You opened the caf stand before the sun even touched the Senate dome.

It wasn't glamorous—just a small stall tucked between the barracks and the speeder lot, wedged beneath a half-broken overhang and decorated with hand-drawn signs and an ancient droid who beeped exactly once every hour. But it was yours. And more importantly, it was theirs. The clones. You made sure the caf was always hot, the chairs weren't falling apart, and that no one left without at least a bad pun or two.

Most troopers came and went in a rush, trading credits and comm chatter like it was a race. But he—he was different.

Commander Fox.

He never rushed. He never lingered either. Just strolled up every morning with the same unrelenting scowl and said, "Two shots. No sugar." Every time.

You gave him his usual. Every time.

And you always tried to get a rise out of him.

"Careful, Commander," you said one morning, handing him his cup. "Any more caf and you'll start running faster than a speeder on payday."

He stared at you. Deadpan. Sipped.

"That's not how physics works."

You grinned. "It is when you believe."

He didn't laugh, not even close. But the next day, he brought his own cup. It had a cartoon speeder drawn on it. You didn't say a word. Just smiled.

That's how it went.

You told jokes. He tolerated them. You talked about your broken chair, and he fixed it the next morning without a word. You mentioned you hadn't eaten, and a ration bar mysteriously showed up on the counter the next day. He never gave compliments. But he always came back.

And that said more than enough.

⸻

One quiet evening, long after shift change, you were wiping down the counter when heavy footsteps approached.

You turned, surprised. "Commander? You're off-duty."

Fox crossed his arms. "You're still working."

"I run this place. I don't really clock out."

"Still shouldn't be alone out here this late."

You raised an eyebrow. "Are you worried about me, Fox?"

He looked away. "Coruscant's not always safe."

You bit back a smile. "No one's gonna mug the caf girl."

"I'm not worried about the girl," he muttered. "I'm worried about the idiot who tries it."

That one caught you off guard.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, suddenly self-conscious, you busied your hands. "Want a cup?"

He hesitated. "Yeah."

You made it exactly the way he liked—two shots, no sugar—but you handed it over with a napkin this time. Scribbled on it, in your awful handwriting, was a cartoon of Fox with steam rising off his helmet and the words: "Too hot to handle."

He stared at it.

You braced yourself for a groan. A sigh. A disappointed head shake.

Instead, he folded the napkin neatly. Tucked it inside his chest plate. Like it mattered.

"You're ridiculous," he said.

"And you're still here."

He looked at you then—really looked. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

"I like the quiet," he said softly. "And the company."

Your breath hitched. The air between you shifted, warm and buzzing with something fragile.

You broke the moment with a smile. "Well, Commander. You keep showing up, and I might start thinking you like me."

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

That shut you up.

He took a sip. Nodded.

Then, as he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder.

"Lock up early tonight."

You watched him disappear into the Coruscant haze, heart hammering.

And the next morning?

He came back.

Same time. Same cup.

But this time... he smiled.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

⸻

It started like any other morning.

The usual rush of troopers streamed past, grabbing caf like their lives depended on it—which, for some of them, might've been true. You moved with practiced ease, slinging caf, dodging jokes, and laughing at war stories with just the right amount of enthusiasm.

Fox hadn't shown up yet.

Which was fine. Totally fine. You weren't waiting or anything. Definitely not.

So when a shiny walked up—fresh armor, no markings, bright eyes and all swagger—you smiled automatically.

"Hey there, trooper. What'll it be?"

He leaned on the counter a little too smoothly. "Whatever you recommend. You've got great taste, right?"

You raised an eyebrow. "In caf or in people?"

He grinned. "Hopefully both."

You laughed—not because it was funny, but because it was so bold. He looked about fifteen seconds out of Kamino, full of confidence and charm. The kind of guy who still thought he was invincible.

You liked his energy. Not like-liked, but it was... cute.

So you poured him something with a little extra foam art—because why not? You were allowed to flirt sometimes. Fox certainly wasn't yours.

And then—just as the shiny said, "If I'd known caf girls were this gorgeous, I'd have transferred sooner"—you felt it.

The shift.

A chill ran up your spine. The air got... heavier.

"Trooper."

The voice was unmistakable. Dry, clipped, and sharp enough to slice through steel.

You turned. And there he was.

Commander Fox. Full armor. Full glare. Standing two paces behind the shiny like a thunderstorm in red.

The rookie flinched. "Sir!"

Fox didn't even look at you—just stared the kid down.

"You're holding up the line."

"I—I was just—"

"She's not your mission," Fox said flatly. "Move."

The shiny didn't need telling twice. He grabbed his caf like it was a thermal detonator and bolted.

You blinked, stunned. "Fox..."

He walked up slowly, that same permanent scowl on his face—but his eyes? They were blazing.

"Didn't realize we were flirting with rookies now."

You snorted. "We? I was being nice."

"He was drooling."

"Maybe I'm charming."

He stared. "You're mine."

Your heart skipped. "Excuse me?"

He froze, like the words had jumped out before he could stop them. Then he looked away, jaw tightening.

"I mean... this is your caf stand. Yours. Not for flirting. Not for—" he sighed, cutting himself off. "He's not good enough."

You tilted your head, stepping closer across the counter. "And who is?"

He didn't answer.

So you leaned in a little more, voice soft. "Was that jealousy, Commander?"

He met your gaze finally, and this time, his voice was quiet.

"Yeah."

You stared at him, your heart doing somersaults.

"You could've just said you like me."

"I thought I was being obvious."

You grinned. "You glared a child into submission."

He shrugged. "He had it coming."

You reached across the counter, brushing his hand. "Well, for the record... I'm not into shinies."

His brows lifted slightly. "No?"

"Nope." You handed him his usual. "I've got a thing for grumpy commanders in red armor."

For the first time in weeks, he smiled.

Not a smirk. Not a twitch.

A real one.

Small. Rare.

Perfect.

Commander Fox x singer/PA Reader pt. 1

Summary: By day, she’s a chaotic assistant in the Coruscant Guard; by night, a smoky-voiced singer who captivates even the most disciplined clones—especially Commander Fox. But when a botched assignment, a bounty hunter’s warning, she realizes the spotlight might just get her killed.

_ _ _ _

The lights of Coruscant were always loud. Flashing neon signs, sirens echoing through levels, speeders zipping like angry wasps. But nothing ever drowned out the voice of the girl at the mic.

She leaned into it like she was born there, bathed in deep blue and violet lights at 99's bar, voice smoky and honey-sweet. She didn't sing like someone performing—she sang like she was telling secrets. And every clone in the place leaned in to hear them.

Fox never stayed for the full set. Not really. He'd linger just outside the threshold long enough to catch the tail end of her voice wrapping around the words of a love song or a low bluesy rebellion tune before disappearing into the shadows, unreadable as ever.

He knew her name.

He knew too much, if he was honest with himself.

---

By some minor miracle of cosmic misalignment, she showed up to work the next day.

Coruscant Guard HQ was sterile and sharp—exactly the opposite of her. The moment she stepped through the entrance, dragging a caf that was more sugar than stimulant, every other assistant looked up like they were seeing a ghost they didn't like.

"She lives," one of them muttered under their breath.

She gave a mock-curtsy, her usual smirk tugging at her lips. "I aim to disappoint."

Her desk was dusty. Her holopad had messages backed up from a week ago. And Fox's office door was—blessedly—closed.

She plopped into her chair, kicking off her boots and spinning once in her chair before sipping her caf and pretending to care about her job.

Unfortunately, today was not going to let her coast.

One of the other assistants—a tight-bunned brunette with a permanently clenched jaw—strolled over, datapad in hand and an expression that said *we're about to screw you over and enjoy it.*

"You're up," the woman said. "Cad Bane's in holding. He needs to be walked through his rights, legal rep options, the whole thing."

The reader blinked. "You want *me* to go talk to *Cad Bane?* The bounty hunter with the murder-happy fingers and sexy lizard eyes?"

"Commander Fox signed off on it."

*Bullshit,* she thought. But aloud, she said, "Well, at least it won't be boring."

---

Security in the lower levels of Guard HQ was tight, and the guards scanned her badge twice—partly because she never came down here, partly because nobody believed she had clearance.

"Try not to get killed," one said dryly as he buzzed her into the cell block.

"Aw, you do care," she winked.

The room was cold. Lit only by flickering fluorescents, with reinforced transparisteel separating her from the infamous Duros bounty hunter. He sat, cuffs in place, slouched like he owned the room even in chains.

"Well, well," Cad Bane drawled, red eyes narrowing with amusement. "Don't recognize you. They finally lettin' in pretty faces to read us our bedtime stories?"

She ignored the spike of fear in her chest and sat across from him, activating the datapad. "Cad Bane. You are being held by the Coruscant Guard for multiple counts of—well, a lot. I'm supposed to inform you of your legal rights and representation—"

"Save it," he said, voice low. "You're not just an assistant."

Her brow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"You smell like city smoke and spice trails. Not paper. Not politics. I've seen girls like you in cantinas two moons from Coruscant, drinkin' with outlaws and singin' like heartbreak's a language." His smile widened. "And I've seen that face. You got a past. And it's catchin' up."

She stood, blood running colder than the cell. "We're done here."

"Hope the Commander's watchin'," Cad added lazily. "He's got eyes on you. Like you're his favorite secret."

She turned and walked—*fast*.

---

Fox was waiting at the end of the hallway when she emerged, helm on, arms crossed, motionless like a statue.

"Commander," she said, voice trying to stay casual even as adrenaline buzzed in her fingers. "Didn't think I rated high enough for personal escorts."

"Why were you down there alone?" His voice was calm. Too calm.

"You signed off on it."

"I didn't."

Her stomach sank. The air between them thickened, tension clicking into place like a blaster being loaded.

"I'll speak to the others," Fox said, stepping closer. "But next time you walk into a room with someone like Cad Bane, you *tell me* first."

She raised a brow. "Since when do you care what I do?"

"I don't," he said too fast.

But she caught it—*the tiny flicker of something human beneath the armor.*

She tilted her head, smirk tugging at her lips again. "If you're going to keep me alive, Commander, I'm going to need to see you at the next open mic night."

Fox turned away.

"I don't attend bars," he said over his shoulder.

"Good," she called back. "Because I'm not singing for the others."

He paused. Just once. Barely. Then he walked on.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was smiling.

---

She walked back into the offices wearing oversized shades, yesterday's eyeliner, and the confidence of someone who refused to admit she probably shouldn't have tequila before 4 a.m.

The moment she crossed the threshold, tight-bun Trina zeroed in.

"Hope you enjoyed your field trip," Trina said, arms folded, sarcasm sharp enough to cut durasteel.

"I did, actually. Made a new friend. His hobbies include threats and murder. You'd get along great," the reader shot back, grabbing her caf and sipping without breaking eye contact.

Trina sneered. "You weren't supposed to go alone. But I guess you're just reckless enough to survive it."

The reader stepped closer, voice dropping. "You sent me because you thought I'd panic. You wanted a show."

"Well, if Commander Fox cares so much, maybe he should stop playing bodyguard and just transfer you to front-line entertainment," Trina snapped.

"Jealousy isn't a good look on you."

"It's not jealousy. It's resentment. You don't work, you vanish for days, and yet he always clears your screw-ups."

She leaned in. "Maybe he just likes me better."

Trina's jaw clenched, "Since you're suddenly here, again, congratulations—you're finishing the Cad Bane intake. Legal processing. Standard rights. You can handle reading, yeah?"

The reader smiled sweetly. "Absolutely. Hooked on Phonics."

---

Two security scans and a passive-aggressive threat from a sergeant later, she was back in the lower cells, now much more aware of just how many surveillance cams were watching her.

Cad Bane looked even more smug than before.

"Well, ain't this a pleasant surprise," he drawled, shackles clicking as he shifted in his seat. "You just can't stay away from me, huh?"

She dropped into the chair across from him, datapad in hand, face expressionless.

"Cad Bane," she began, voice clipped and professional, "you are currently being held under charges of murder, kidnapping, sabotage, resisting arrest, impersonating a Jedi, and approximately thirty-seven other counts I don't have time to read. I am required by Republic protocol to inform you of the following."

He tilted his head, red eyes watching her like a predator amused by a small animal reading from a script.

"You have the right to remain silent," she continued. "You are entitled to legal representation. If you do not have a representative of your own, the Republic will provide you with one."

Bane snorted. "You mean one of those clean little lawyer droids with sticks up their circuits? Pass."

She didn't blink. "Do you currently have your own legal representation?"

"I'll let you know when I feel like cooperating."

She tapped on the datapad, noting his response.

"Further information about the trial process and detention terms will be provided at your next hearing."

"You're not very warm," he mused.

"I'm not here to be."

"Pity. I liked earliers sass."

She stood up. "Try not to escape before sentencing."

"Tell your Commander I said hello."

That stopped her. Just for a second.

Bane smiled wider. "What? You thought no one noticed?"

She didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. She left with her heart thudding harder than she wanted to admit.

That night, 79's was packed wall to wall with off-duty clones, local droids trying to dance, and smugglers pretending not to be smugglers. She stood under the lights, voice curling around a jazz-infused battle hymn she'd rewritten to sound like a love song.

And there, in the shadows by the bar, armor glinting like red wine under lights—

Commander Fox.

She didn't falter. Not when her eyes met his. Not when her voice dipped into a sultry bridge, not when he didn't look away once.

After the show, she took the back exit—like always. And like always, she sensed the wrongness first.

A chill up her spine. A presence behind her, too quiet, too deliberate.

She spun. "You're not a fan, are you?"

The woman stepped out of the shadows with a predator's grace.

Aurra Sing.

"You're more interesting than I expected," she said. "Tied to the Guard. Friendly with a Commander. Eyes and ears on all the right rooms."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Aurra's lip curled. "Doesn't matter. You're on my radar now."

And she vanished.

Back in her apartment, she barely kicked off her boots when there was a knock at the door. She checked the screen.

Fox.

Still in full armor. Still unreadable.

"I saw her," he said before she could speak. "Aurra Sing. She was following you."

"I noticed," she said, trying to sound casual. "What, did you tail me all the way from 79's?"

"I don't trust bounty hunters."

"Not even the ones who sing?"

He didn't answer. Either he didn't get the joke, or he was to concerned to laugh.

"You came to my show," she said softly. "Why?"

"I was off-duty."

"Sure. That's why you were in full armor. Just blending in."

A beat passed. Then he said, "You were good."

"I'm always good."

Another silence stretched between them. Less awkward, more charged.

"You're not safe," Fox said finally. "You shouldn't be alone."

"Yeah? You offering to babysit me?"

He almost smiled. Almost. Then, wordless, he stepped back into the corridor.

The door closed.

But for a moment longer, she stood there, heartbeat loud, his words echoing in her mind.

You're not safe.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.

———

Part 2

Material Lists 🩵

|❤️ = Romantic | 🌶️= smut or smut implied |🏡= platonic |

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I personally prefer not to write smut, however if requested I am happy to do so. depending on what you have requested.