Commander Thire - Blog Posts

Some doodles with Corries and my OCs

Thire and Pain are best friends. I have no idea what wild story Thorn is telling here to have these reactions. 

Clone Wars characters as things I’ve heard people say

Pt.10

“Talking about peoples future working in a bowling alley” - Thire

“Holy you actually filled them in and payed attention,must have been a good day” - Fox

“You passing this course your commanders will be very impressed” - Alpha 17

“Holy crap balls” - Padme

“Mummy and daddy giraffes” - Hardcase

“I having a bad day and I’m going to murderer my” - Wolffe

“I disappreciate you” - Sinker

“Wowo we don’t call people turdnuggets” - Plo Koon

“I want to learn how to make crystal meth” - Jesse

“Rex do you want to know the three times I almost died today?” - Echo

“My knuckles are on crack” - Bly

“My lines are straighter than a gay person” - Ponds

“If I had 9 lives I would utilize one of them to kill myself in front of all of you” - Rex

“When a law bills a sign” - Fives

“It’s not mail man anymore it’s Amazon delivery man” - Anakin

“Don’t question the woman’s choices just help her find the daddy” - Ahsoka

“Honest to god” - Obi-Wan

“I keep thinking their jerseys say cocaine” - Quinlin Vos

“Back in my day we made posters out of cool aid man” - Yoda

“That’s kind of fruity in a straight way” - Cody

“I have it in the back of my head but I can’t get it to the tip of my tongue” - Tup

Clone Wars characters as quotes I have heard

Pt. 7???

“That kid just dropped his garbage on the ground, someone should kidnap that kid” - Mace Windu

“Echo can you get me a milk of water” - Fives

“Smells like sweaty flowers” - Bly

“Cinnamon Almond?” - Anakin

“What other stuff do wolves eat? Cinnamon almond?” “Other cats” - Rex and Fives

“For example shut up” - Cody

“My shoulders are to sexy” - Ahsoka

“I love how I said it starts with F you and said incomplete” - Obi-Wan

“So if I have 2 abiotic squirrels in my fridge” - Hardcase

“Ooh that’s nice here and ooh it’s not nice here” - Gree

“If both of my parents are blonde how does my brother have green eyes” - Fox

“Is poop yogurt?” - Jesse

“Yo how big are your feet?” - Thire

“People over there shut up” - Rex

“I don’t get payed enough for this” - Ponds

“Omg the scars are so prettty” - Kix

*talking about a mission plan* “why are you here?” - Luminara

“A capacorn?” - Tup

“You guys need to take your meds” - Depa

“I have ADHD and I didn’t take my medication” - Hardcase

“Can I get my apples?🙁” - Echo

“Because your baby doesn’t work” - Gree

“Grades,Graduation,Future” - Alpha 17

gooooood morning for the promt thingy: "i’m not leaving you here" but don't stress yourself!!!! hope youll have a great day ((:

content warning for minor descriptions of injuries!

“Fox,” Thire whispers, kneeling down to the awfully still body lying in the hallway.

Fox is cold. But when he presses his fingers against the small patch of skin below his helmet he can feel his steady pulse, though too fast. He sends Nova a comm telling them to prepare a bed.

“Hey, Commander,” Thire tries again, nudging him. Fox groans this time.

“Fuck off.”

“You’re lying in the middle of the hallway,” Thire notes. “Come on, let’s get you up. Nova is waiting.”

“No,” Fox says.

“No?”

“Hurts. Moving—It hurts. Just leave me here for a bit. I’ll—I’ll be up later.”

Thire frowns. “I’m not leaving you here, Fox. Where does it hurt?”

“Head. Back. Everywhere.”

“Okay. How about this? I pick you up and get you to medical without you having to do a thing, and once you’re there Nova can help you.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“You’re very strong and brave.”

“Stop talking to me like I’m shiny,” Fox bites. Then sighs. “Okay. You can carry me.”

Thire carefully lifts his brother into his arms. Fox is quiet. If Thire had to guess he’d say that he’s biting back any noises that’d indicate he’d be in pain.

There’s blood sipping through the armor.

“Fox, how badly are you hurt,” Thire croaks as he arranges Fox to be as comfortable as possible and then quickly starts walking.

“I’ll live.”

“Fuck. What did he do to you?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You’re shaking.”

“Probably from—the shocks.”

“You’re in shock?”

“No, dumbass. Electrical shocks.”

“Fucking hell, Fox.”

Fox doesn’t respond. He leans against Thire’s chestplate and Thire hears him breathe heavily through the helmet.

“Almost there, Commander,” he tries. Fox doesn’t respond.

As soon as he enters medbay Nova is in front of him, taking Fox’s still form out of his arms and wordlessly moving him to one of the beds. “Help him get that off,” they instruct. Thire moves to remove Fox’s individual armor pieces, and once those are gone Nova helps sit Fox up so they can get him out of his undersuit. Thire has to stop himself from wincing as he sees the bruises covering his body.

“I’ll kill him one day,” Thire says. Nova injects something in Fox’s arm and Fox takes the treatment silently, not quite looking at them. He does squeeze Thire’s hand back when Thire moves to hold his. “You know you can’t,” he breathes.

“Why were you in the hallway in the first place?”

“Wanted to go to my room after. Didn’t get further.”

“Idiot,” Thire says.

“I outrank you. Have—fuck, that hurts.”

Nova works quietly. Fox tightens his hold on Thire’s hand, and Thire imagines what it’d be like to put a bullet through the Chancellor’s skull.

I have this weird headcanon that Thorn was named by Fox in a “Why are you a Thorn in my side?” And Thorn just ran with it kind of way… well, here’s the rest of the commanders as they are accidentally named by Fox.

Stone (who accidentally ate something he wasn’t supposed to and Fox is coming to replace him in patrol)

Senator: “Are you high?”

Fox, panicking: “No, he’s stoned. I mean his name is Stone and he’s in training.”

Thire (who was talking about Thorn with Fox)

Thire: *yawns*

Fox, also tired and stopping mid-sentence: “You’re Thired. Go to bed. We’ll continue this in the morning.”

I feel like its a running joke in the Guard that vode are taking Fox’s insults and misspeaks and are like “yup. You will never live this down. This is my name now.”

“Move, Caff. I need away.” (Move away. I need caff)

“Unless the Chancellor is dying, I don’t want to hear it, Shehn'eta (was trying to say shiny or vod’ika and his brain mixed them ended up with 80 in Mando’a) (now the shiny is called 80 despite not having those numbers in his designation. He loves telling the story though )

just a normal day at the normal office where everything is normal always

Coruscant guard as bizarre t shirts

again, fanart welcome

haat cuyir let dayn ~ Truth Revealed Chapter 5 has been posted on ao3 as of 12/29/22

Chapter Summary:

Fox continued speaking, stating, "Like I said when you first arrived, this isn't the Front. The Guard has different regulations then you did out there and until I can trust you to understand this and follow the rules that have been put in place, I can't rely on you to not act like arrogant Shinies."

"How many rules do you need for Flimsi work?" Wolffe muttered to Bly who slightly shrugged in response.

"We do more than just Flimsi-work Wolffe." Fox stated, "Contrary to popular belief apparently." Fox muttered loud enough for all of them to hear what he said. How long would it take for them to understand this simple concept?

Thire: ...Thorn...What are you doing waving your blaster carbine around outside of Fox's office? Thorn: He's sleeping inside. Stone: ...What are you two doing pointing your blasters at everyone? Thire: We're guarding Fox's office door. Thorn: He's sleeping inside. Hound: Huh? Why are you three guarding Fox's office door? Thorn: He's sleeping inside. He's been sleeping for a whole three hours now. Cody: What's going on?...What are the four of you doing threatening everyone who gets close to Fox's office? Is the chancellor in there or something? Thire: No. No one is permitted to enter Marshal Commander Fox's office. Do not call out to him; we will silence you. Obi-Wan: May I ask why? Thorn: He's sleeping. Cody: Force. Ok. Uh...Let me find Rex. We'll help you. Obi-Wan, chuckling: You lot take your sleep seriously, don't you? Cody: He sleeps once a week. Obi-Wan: ...I'll fetch Anakin and Ahsoka.

AU in which the chancellor dies in a freak (probably Zillo-beast related) accident. Everyone is attending his funeral and really, the Jedi are trying really hard to mourn but it’s incredibly difficult to when the entirety of the coruscant guard is apparently throwing a mental and spiritual party so loud in the Force Dathomir can feel it.

Fox and Thire and my specific lil hc that when quick notes need to be taken down, like with witness reports or something, Fox will force whichever brother had to come with him to the scene to take the notes while he does the fun part of asking questions. They all complain about it as if scribbling shorthand on a datapad is the most grueling task ever

Coruscant Guard hot take:

Out of the all the clone sects, they’re the most accustomed to killing organics (non-droids).

Hear me out, other clones are on actual battlefields but 90% of their enemies are droids. I don’t think we see much of clones killing organics outside of order 66, and that one fucked up episode w/ pong Krell.

Also I know there’s groups aligned w/ the separatist or at least unaligned but still fighting republic troops. But I’m not arguing quantity I’m arguing the clones familiarity with killing organic beings

For the coruscant guard, while a lot of droids are around, living beings are far more likely to be perpetrators/criminals. Lethal force to a degree seems to be allowed, not for the safety of the clones of course, but so the assailant doesn’t hurt anyone with actual human rights. But do you see my point?

Incorrect Fox quote based on my current mood:

Fox: I’m here for a long time not a good time.

Thire: Isn’t it-

Fox: I know what I said.

Corrie Gaurd Material List❤️💋❌🚨

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

Commander Fox

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.1❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.2❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.3❤️

- x Singer/PA Reader pt.4❤️

- x Caf shop owner reader ❤️

- x reader “command and consequence”❤️

- x Reader “Command and Consequence pt.2”❤️

- x Senator Reader “Red and Loyal” multiple parts ❤️

- “Red Lines” multiple parts

- “soft spot” ❤️

Commander Thorn

- x Senator Reader “Collateral Morals” multiple parts❤️

- x Senator Reader “the lesser of two wars” multiple parts ❤️

Sergeant Hound

- X Reader “Grizzer’s Choice”

Overall Material List

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.10

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The transmission hit her desk with all the weight of a blaster bolt.

Her planet. Under threat.

The Separatists were making moves—fleet signatures near the outer perimeter of her system, whispers of droid deployment, unrest stoked in territories that hadn’t seen true peace in years. She knew the signs. She’d lived through them once.

And she was not going to watch her world burn again.

She stood before the Senate with a voice louder than it had ever been.

The Senate chambers were suffocating. The cries of war, politics, and pleas for support blurred into white noise as the senator stood at the center, resolute and burning with purpose.

“My planet is under threat,” she said, voice clear, powerful. “We have no fleet, no shield generator, no standing army worth more than a gesture. We were promised protection when we joined this Republic. Will you now let us burn for being forgotten?”

A pause followed. Murmurs stirred. Eyes averted.

“Request denied,” one senator muttered.

“You owe us this!” she shouted, her words echoing through the chambers. “I gave everything I had to stabilize my planet. My people know what war costs. They know what it takes to survive it. But they shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Some senators looked away. Others whispered. A few nodded, expressions grim with understanding or guilt.

Chancellor Palpatine raised a single hand, silencing the room.

“You will have one battalion,” he said at last, voice velvet and dangerous. “We do not have more to spare.”

Her gut twisted, but she bowed her head. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

No one looked at her when she nodded in silence, but the steel in her spine was unmistakable.

The descent back to her homeworld was cold, unceremonious.

Commander Neyo stood at the head of the troop transport, motionless, arms behind his back, helmet fixed forward. Every movement of his men was calculated, seamless. The 91st Reconnaissance Corps was surgical in nature—swift, efficient, detached.

Master Stass Allie stood nearby, hands folded in front of her. She radiated composed strength, yet there was a gentleness to her that seemed at odds with Neyo’s blunt precision.

“I advise you not to disembark with the vanguard,” Stass said evenly. “Let the initial scan and sweep conclude before you step into an active zone.”

“This is my home,” the senator replied, eyes fixed on the viewport. “And I won’t return to it behind a wall of armor.”

Neyo turned slightly. “Then stay out of our way. We’re not here to make emotional reunions.”

The senator didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask you to be.”

The ship pierced the cloud cover, revealing the battered surface below. Her capital city—once a war zone, now partially rebuilt—spread like a scar across red earth. Familiar buildings stood among ruins and reconstruction. It hadn’t healed. Not fully. Not yet.

The shuttle landed. Dust curled around the hull as the ramp lowered.

Neyo’s troops deployed immediately, securing the perimeter with wordless discipline. The senator stepped down, her boots hitting home soil for the first time since she had sworn herself to diplomacy instead of command.

She took a breath.

The air still held the tang of iron, of scorched ground and old blood. Her eyes burned, not from wind.

She walked out ahead of the Jedi, ahead of the soldiers. Alone.

The wind carried voices—hushed, reverent, fearful. Civilians and civil guards had gathered to watch from a distance. Her return wasn’t met with cheers. Only silence. Recognition.

And wariness.

“She’s back,” someone murmured.

Another whispered, “After everything she did?”

Master Stass Allie watched carefully. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“I didn’t come back for easy,” the senator said, her voice firm. “I came back because I have to. Because I won’t let this place fall again.”

Commander Neyo gave no comment. His orders were simple: defend the system, follow the Jedi, and keep the senator from becoming a casualty or a liability.

As they moved out to establish the command post, the senator stood atop a ridge just beyond the city. She looked out over the familiar lands—the riverbed turned battleground, the hills where she buried her dead, the skyline marked with the skeletons of buildings still bearing her war scars.

For a moment, she didn’t feel like a senator.

She felt like a commander again.

Only this time, she wasn’t sure which version of her was more dangerous.

⸻

The makeshift command tent was pitched atop a fortified overlook, giving the 91st a wide tactical view of the lowland valley just outside the capital city. Dust clung to every surface, and holomaps flickered under the dim lights as Stass Allie, Commander Neyo, and the senator gathered around the central table.

Stass was calm as ever, a quiet storm of wisdom and strategy. Neyo stood rigid beside her, visor lowered, hands clasped behind his back.

The senator, though wearing no armor, held a presence that could bend the room.

“We’re expecting a heavy push through the mountain pass. Based on Seppie patterns, they’ll aim to box in the capital and strangle supply lines. We need to flank before they dig in,” Stass said, pointing to the high ridges on the eastern approach.

“The ridge is tactically sound,” Neyo added. “Minimal resistance, optimal vantage. If we come down from the temple heights here—” he gestured, tapping the map with precision, “—we’ll break their formation before they reach the capital walls.”

“No.”

The word cut sharp through the low hum of the command tent.

Neyo’s head tilted. “Pardon?”

The senator leaned in, steady but resolute. “That approach takes us through Virean Plateau.”

“Yes,” Neyo said flatly. “It’s elevated, provides cover, and we can route artillery through the lower trails.”

“It’s sacred ground.”

Stass glanced at the senator, then back to the map. “Sacred or not, the Separatists won’t hesitate to use it.”

“I know,” the senator replied. “But I also know what happens when that soil is soaked with blood. I made that mistake once. I won’t make it again.”

Neyo didn’t react immediately. The silence hung for a moment too long.

“So we disregard the optimal path because of sentiment?” he asked, voice devoid of tone.

“It’s not sentiment,” she answered. “It’s consequence. Virean Plateau is more than earth—it’s memory. It’s where we buried our dead after the first uprising. My own people nearly turned on me for allowing it to become a battlefield. If we desecrate it again, there may be no peace left to return to.”

Stass Allie offered a glance of measured approval.

“Alternative?” she asked.

The senator reached across the table, tapping a narrow canyon west of the capital. “We pull them in here—tight quarters, limited maneuvering. Use a bottleneck tactic with mines set along the walls. They’ll have no choice but to cluster. When they do, we collapse the ridgeline.”

“A canyon ambush is high-risk,” Neyo said. “We’ll lose men.”

“We’ll lose more if we trample sacred ground and spark another civil uprising in the middle of a war. You don’t win with the cleanest plan. You win with the one that leaves something behind to rebuild.”

Stass nodded slowly. “She’s right.”

Neyo didn’t argue. He only leaned back, helmet fixed on the senator.

“I’ll adjust the approach. But don’t expect the enemy to respect your boundaries.”

“I don’t,” she replied. “That’s why we’ll strike first.”

Stass looked between them—soldier, Jedi, and the politician who once ruled like a warlord. There was no denying it.

The senator wasn’t a commander anymore.

But the commander was still very much alive.

⸻

The canyon was harsh and narrow, carved by centuries of wind and fury. Now it would become the place they’d make their stand.

The senator walked the length of the rocky pass beside Neyo and a few of his officers, outlining trap points with the kind of confidence most senators never possessed. Her voice was sure. Her boots didn’t falter. Her fingers grazed the canyon wall as she surveyed the terrain—like she was greeting an old friend rather than scouting a battleground.

Neyo had seen Jedi generals hesitate more than she did.

“We’ll place remote charges here,” she said, stopping near a brittle overhang. “If the droids push too fast, we bring the rocks down and funnel them into kill zones here—” she pointed again, “—and here. Then your men pick them off with sniper fire from the high spines.”

“Clever,” said one of the clones, glancing at Neyo.

“Risky,” Neyo replied, but his tone wasn’t cold. Just observant.

She turned to face him fully. “Victory demands risk. I thought you understood that better than anyone.”

Neyo’s visor met her eyes. There was silence, then: “You speak like a soldier.”

“I was one,” she said. “The galaxy just prefers to forget that part.”

Over the next few hours, she moved among the men—kneeling beside them, helping place mines, checking line of sight through scopes, confirming relay ranges with engineers. Stass Allie watched with a calm kind of pride, saying nothing. Neyo observed with calculated interest.

She laughed once—soft, almost involuntary—when a younger clone dropped a charge too early and scrambled after it. She helped him reset it. She got her hands dirty.

She didn’t give orders from a chair. She stood with them in the dust.

Neyo found himself watching more than he should. Not because he didn’t trust her—but because something had shifted. Slightly. Quietly. In a way he didn’t welcome.

Respect.

It crept in slowly. Earned with sweat and grit. She didn’t demand it. She claimed it.

And somewhere beneath that iron discipline of his, Neyo began to wonder—

If she looked at him the way she did Thorn or Fox… would he really be so different from them?

It disturbed him.

He didn’t want to admire her. Not like that.

But when she stood atop the ridge that night, wind catching her hair, the stars reflecting in her eyes as she looked over the battlefield they were shaping together, Neyo didn’t see a senator.

He saw a force.

He saw someone worth following.

And he suddenly understood just a little more about Fox—and hated that understanding with every part of himself.

The trap was set.

From the top of the canyon ridges, the 91st Reconnaissance Corps lay in wait, eyes sharp behind visors, rifles trained on the winding path below. Beside them, one hundred of the senator’s own planetary guard stood tall, armor painted in the deep ochre and black of her homeland, their spears and blasters at the ready. The senator stood at the head of her people, clad in their ancestral war armor—obsidian plates trimmed with silver and red, a high-collared cape catching the canyon wind like a banner.

She was a vision of history reborn.

General Stass Allie stood with Neyo above, watching the enemy approach—a column of Separatist tanks and droid squads snaking into the narrow death trap.

“All units,” Neyo’s voice crackled over comms. “Hold position.”

The canyon trembled with the metallic march of the droids.

Then—detonation.

Explosions thundered down the cliffside as rock and fire collapsed over the lead tanks, just as planned. Droids scattered, confused, rerouting, pushing forward into the choke point—and then the 91st opened fire.

Sniper bolts rained from above.

The senator’s people surged from behind the outcroppings with war cries, cutting into the confused line of droids. She led them—blade drawn, cloak flowing behind her—fierce and unrelenting. For a moment, the tide was perfect.

And then it broke.

A spider droid crested an unscouted rise from the rear—missed in recon. It fired before anyone could react.

The blast hit near the senator.

She was thrown through the air, landing hard against a rock with a crack that echoed over the battlefield.

“SENATOR!” one of her guards screamed, his voice raw and desperate as he ran toward her, but she was already pushing herself up on shaking arms, blood running from her temple.

“ADVANCE, GOD DAMMIT!” she shouted, hoarse and furious. “They’re right there! Don’t you dare stop now!”

Her people faltered only for a moment.

Then they roared as one and charged again, stepping over her, past her, and into the storm of fire and metal.

From above, Neyo watched, jaw clenched beneath his helmet. Stass Allie placed a hand on his shoulder as if to calm him—but it wasn’t his rage she was tempering.

It was something else.

The senator stood—bloodied, staggering—but unbroken. She took up her sword again and limped forward, refusing to let anyone see her fall.

And the canyon echoed with the sound of war and loyalty—and the scream of a woman who would not be made small by pain.

Her leg burned. Her side screamed with every breath. But the senator forced herself upright, gripping her sword tight enough for her knuckles to pale beneath her gloves. The dust stung her eyes. Blaster fire carved bright streaks through the canyon air. Her guard surged ahead of her—but she refused to let them lead alone.

Not here. Not again.

She limped forward, blade dragging against the stone until the blood from her brow soaked into her collar. The pain grounded her, reminded her she was alive—reminded her that she had to be.

A Separatist droid rounded the corner—a commando unit. It raised its blaster.

Too slow.

She lunged forward with a cry and cleaved the droid clean through the chestplate, sparks flying as it collapsed.

“Fall back to the rally point!” one of the clones called, but she didn’t. She moved forward instead, shoulder to shoulder with the men and women of her world, guiding them through the chaos, calling orders, ducking fire.

From the ridge, Neyo watched. “Is she insane?”

“She’s winning,” Stass Allie replied, eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

He said nothing.

Below, a final wave of droids tried to regroup—but it was too late. The choke point had collapsed behind them in rubble, and the senator’s forces flanked them from both sides.

Trapped.

The 91st swept down from the cliffs like silent ghosts—precise, efficient, ruthless. The senator’s guard hit from the ground, coordinated, focused, fighting like people with something to prove.

With something to protect.

She reached the center just in time to plunge her blade into the last B2 battle droid before it could fire. It slumped, dead weight and scorched metal, collapsing at her feet.

Then—silence.

The canyon held its breath.

The last of the droids fell, and the only sound was the crackle of smoking wreckage and the harsh breaths of soldiers.

They’d won.

The senator stood among the wreckage, blood trickling down her face, her people all around her—some wounded, some helping others to their feet. She breathed heavily, sword lowered, shoulders sagging.

Neyo descended from the cliffs with a small team, Stass Allie close behind. His armor was immaculate, untouched by battle. Hers was battered, scorched, soaked.

And yet she looked stronger than ever.

Their eyes met across the dust and ruin.

He gave a short, tight nod.

“You disobeyed every strategic rule in the book,” he said, voice flat.

“And I saved my people,” she replied, barely above a rasp.

Another pause.

Then, quiet—barely perceptible—Neyo muttered, “…Noted.”

⸻

The city beyond the canyon lit up in firelight and song.

Victory drums echoed off the walls of the ancient stone hall as the people of her planet celebrated the blood they shed—and the blood they did not. Bonfires lined the streets. Horns blared. Men and women danced barefoot in the dust, tankards raised high. Her world had survived another war. And like always, they honored it with noise and joy and wine.

The clones of the 91st were invited—expected—to join. They looked stunned at first, caught off guard by the raw emotion and warmth thrown at them. But it didn’t take long before some of them loosened up, helmets off, cups in hand. A few were pulled into dances. One poor trooper got kissed on the mouth by a war widow three times his age.

Commander Neyo remained on the outskirts. Always watching. Always apart.

The senator—dressed down in soft, flowing local fabrics now stained with wine and dust, her war paint only half faded—was plastered. Laughing one moment, arguing with an elder the next, trying to teach a clone how to chant over the firepit after that.

Eventually, she broke from the crowd. She spotted Neyo standing at the edge of the firelight, arms folded, as if even now he couldn’t relax.

She staggered up to him, hair wild, eyes sharp even beneath the drunken haze.

“Neyo,” she said, slurring just slightly, “why are you always standing so still? Don’t you ever feel anything?”

“I feel plenty,” he replied. “I just don’t need to dance about it.”

She narrowed her eyes and jabbed a finger at him. “You’re a cold bastard.”

“Correct.”

She stepped closer, closer than she normally would. “You made Fox apologise.”

He didn’t answer.

Her gaze flicked over his helmet. “He wouldn’t have done that. Not without something—big. What did you say to him?”

A pause.

“He was out of line,” Neyo finally said. “I reminded him what his rank means.”

“That’s not all,” she pushed. “What did you really say?”

He looked at her then, just barely, as if debating whether to speak at all. Finally:

“I told him that if he was going to act like a lovesick cadet, then he should resign his commission and go write poetry. Otherwise, he needed to remember he’s a marshal commander. And act like it.”

She blinked. “That’s exactly what you said?”

“No,” Neyo said, dryly. “What I actually said would’ve made your generals back during the war flinch.”

She snorted. “I like you more when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t get drunk.”

She leaned in, bold with wine. “Maybe if you did, you’d understand why I’m not angry with him.”

He stared at her, unreadable.

“I’m not angry,” she repeated. “But he didn’t tell me how he felt. You scared him into making amends, but you can’t make him say it.” She tilted her head. “And now you’ve got him cornered. And you’re mad at him for it.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Neyo said quietly.

“No,” she said, “but you keep looking at me like you wish I didn’t belong to someone else.”

The silence hung for a moment.

Then Neyo stepped back. “Enjoy your celebration, Senator.”

He turned and walked away.

She stood there for a long moment—then swayed on her feet, laughing softly to herself, and staggered back toward the fire.

⸻

Her head throbbed like war drums.

The sun was too bright. The sheets were too scratchy. Her mouth tasted like smoke and fermented fruit. And worst of all—

“—and furthermore, Senator, I must note that your behavior last night was entirely unbecoming of your station—”

“GH-9,” she croaked from the bed, voice raw, “if you say one more word, I will bury your smug golden head in the canyon and file it as a tragic mining accident.”

The protocol droid paused. “I was merely expressing concern, Senator—”

The beeping started next.

Sharp, furious chirps in a tone that could only be described as personally offended.

“Don’t you start,” she groaned, flopping a pillow over her head. “R7, I don’t have time for your attitude. I left you here because I value my life.”

The astromech bleeped something that sounded like a slur.

GH-9 tilted its shiny head. “I believe he just suggested you value nothing and have the moral fiber of a womp rat.”

“Tell him he’s not wrong.”

R7 gave a triumphant whistle and spun in a little angry circle.

She dragged herself out of bed like a corpse rising from the grave. Her hair was a disaster. Her ceremonial paint from the night before had smeared into a mess of black streaks and gold glitter. Her armor lay in a forgotten pile across the room, boots kicked halfway under the dresser.

“You two weren’t supposed to come back with me,” she mumbled as she washed her face with cold water. “That’s why I left you. GH, you talk too much, and R7, you nearly tasered Senator Ask Aak the last time we were in session.”

The astromech beeped proudly.

“I told you he wasn’t a Separatist.”

R7’s dome swiveled in defiance.

GH-9 cleared its vocabulator. “Might I remind you, Senator, that both of us are programmed for loyal service, and your reckless abandon in leaving us behind—”

She flicked water at it.

“Don’t test me,” she muttered, pulling on her fresh tunic.

The shuttle was due to depart in two hours. Neyo and his battalion had already begun packing. The war drums had long gone quiet, and now, only the dull hush of cleanup remained outside her window.

She looked around the modest bedroom—her old bedroom. It hadn’t changed. Neither had the ache in her chest when she looked at it. Not grief. Not nostalgia. Something heavier. Something unnamed.

Behind her, GH-9 stood stiffly, arms behind his back like a tutor waiting for his student to fail.

R7, on the other hand, rolled up beside her and nudged her leg.

She sighed and rested a hand on his dome.

“Fine,” she muttered. “You can both come. Just promise me one of you won’t mouth off in front of the Chancellor, and the other won’t stab anyone.”

R7 whirred.

“That wasn’t a no.”

⸻

The landing platform gleamed in the pale Coruscanti sun, all cold durasteel and blinding reflection. The moment the ramp descended, she could already see the unmistakable figures of Fox and Thorn standing at the base—arms crossed, boots braced, both of them looking equal parts tense and eager.

Her stomach flipped. The droids rolled down behind her.

Fox got to her first, posture rigid, helmet tucked under his arm. “Senator.”

His voice was that low, professional gravel—too careful. Like he wasn’t sure how to greet her now. Like the war, the chaos, and everything unsaid was standing between them.

Thorn was right behind him. He looked less cautious, his gaze dragging over her face, her still-healing arm. “You look like hell,” he said with a small grin.

“Still better than you with your shirt off,” she muttered, smirking up at him.

Thorn’s grin widened. “That’s not what you said on—”

BANG.

A harsh metallic clang interrupted whatever comeback he had lined up. The three of them turned just in time to see her astromech, R7, ramming into Thorn’s shin with a furious burst of mechanical outrage.

“R7!” she barked, storming over. “What did I say about assaulting people?”

The droid chirped angrily and spun his dome toward her, then toward Fox, then let out a long series of beeps that sounded vaguely like profanity. Thorn took a step back, wincing and muttering something about “murder buckets.”

“I think he’s upset no one moved out of his way,” GH-9 said unhelpfully from behind her, arms folded in disdain. “I did warn him to wait, but he believes officers should respect seniority.”

“He’s a droid,” Thorn snapped, rubbing his leg. “A violent one.”

Fox was eyeing R7 with both brows raised. “You didn’t mention you were traveling with an explosive.”

“Fox,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t provoke him. He’s got a fuse shorter than a thermal detonator and a kill count I don’t want to know.”

“Probably a higher one than mine,” Thorn muttered.

The astromech let out a smug beep.

Fox gave a subtle nod to GH-9. “And what’s his problem?”

“I talk too much,” GH-9 supplied proudly.

“You do,” the Senator stated.

The senator gave up, dragging a hand down her face. “Can we just go? Please? Before he tases someone and it becomes a diplomatic incident?”

Fox stepped aside. Thorn limped with exaggerated pain. R7 spun in satisfaction and zipped ahead like a victorious little gremlin.

She exhaled and muttered under her breath, “I should’ve left them again.”

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.9

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The senator had just finished brushing out her hair when the knock sounded on her door. Not urgent. Not protocol. A familiar rhythm.

She smirked before she even opened it.

“Kenobi.”

“Senator,” he greeted smoothly, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He wore civilian robes again, lighter and less formal than the ones for Council meetings. He looked tired but amused.

She poured him a drink without asking.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Vos got you in trouble again?”

Obi-Wan laughed as he accepted the glass. “Not this time. Surprisingly. I’m here for a bit of… tea.”

Her brow lifted. “You’re bringing gossip now? I didn’t think you were the type.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, sipping. “But Commander Cody is. And as it turns out, your favorite Marshal Commander had quite the dramatic evening.”

Her smirk faltered. “Fox?”

“Mhm. Got into a full-on barracks brawl with Commander Thorn. It took Stone, Thire, Hound—and Grizzer, apparently—to break it up. Neyo had to drag Fox out by his collar and gave him a verbal lashing so brutal Cody said even he winced.”

She blinked. “What?”

Obi-Wan leaned casually against the back of her sofa. “Cody said it was over a woman. A senator. Tall. Sharp-tongued. Dangerous past. Ringing any bells?”

She rolled her eyes and finished her drink. “I thought Jedi were above this sort of drama.”

He smiled at her over the rim of his glass. “Not when we served alongside the subject of said drama during a war that’s still mostly classified.”

That shut her up.

“You always knew how to turn a knife with a smile,” she muttered, setting the glass down.

Obi-Wan’s face gentled. “They care about you. Both of them. Deeply.”

“And I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But you earned it. The good and the bad of that kind of loyalty.”

She sighed, suddenly tired. “Did Vos tell them anything?”

Obi-Wan hesitated, then answered honestly. “No. Not really. Just implied. He knows better than to break sealed records. But they’re not stupid, either. Thorn saw the way you moved before you even said a word. Fox… saw something else.”

She didn’t respond.

He set the empty glass down beside hers. “I told Vos to stay out of it. I doubt he listened. But if you want this kept quiet… you might want to speak with the commanders yourself. Before someone else decides to dig deeper.”

Her voice was soft now. “What would you do?”

Obi-Wan gave a small shrug. “I’d probably lie. But I’m not sure that’s your style anymore.”

They shared a long look—one soldier to another, stripped of titles.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

He smiled. “Of course. You always did keep the battlefield interesting.”

As he turned to go, she called after him, dry as sand.

“Tell Cody if he wants to gossip, he should at least have the nerve to come see me himself.”

Obi-Wan chuckled all the way to the door. “Careful what you wish for.”

⸻

The senator had just settled into her chair, datapad in hand, when a familiar and entirely unwelcome sound echoed from her balcony—three sharp knocks, the rattle of the door handle, and then—

“Don’t pretend you’re not home. I saw the lights on.”

She sighed through her teeth. “Vos…”

Opening the door, she found the Jedi standing there with his usual self-satisfied smirk and not a single ounce of shame.

“You ever heard of calling first?” she asked flatly.

“I don’t believe in unnecessary formalities between old war buddies,” he said, brushing past her like he owned the place. “Besides, I’ve got juicy gossip and a bottle of Corellian red.”

She shut the door with a click. “Kenobi beat you to it.”

Vos froze mid-step. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Came by earlier. Looked annoyingly smug the whole time.”

“Dammit,” Vos muttered. “I was hoping to be the one to tell you about the Fox and Thorn Brawl.”

She smirked and took the bottle from him anyway. “Nice try. Obi-Wan already filled me in on the punches, the growling, the whole squad pile-up.”

Vos flopped into her armchair, legs over the arm like a delinquent. “Alright, but did he tell you the best part?”

She gave him a look.

Vos wiggled his eyebrows. “Fox apologized.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “To his men?”

Vos pointed at her with a grin. “There it is. That face. Knew you didn’t hear that part.”

She blinked. “Fox. Marshal Commander Fox. The same man who’d rather choke on his own pride than admit he even has feelings, much less regret?”

“The very same,” Vos said cheerfully. “Apparently gave Hound a bone for his mastiff and everything. I think it actually threw the Guard into a full existential crisis.”

She laughed softly. “Neyo must’ve really given it to him.”

“Oh, he did,” Vos said, eyes twinkling. “Word is, Neyo’s dressing down was so intense, Fox was halfway convinced he’d be reassigned to latrine duty.”

She snorted and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to him.

“Maybe,” she drawled, “I’ve been flirting with the wrong commanders.”

Vos choked on his sip, grinning over the rim of his glass. “Oh no, sweetheart. Even you couldn’t break Neyo.”

She raised her brows. “Is that a challenge?”

“Not unless you’re into men who quote the regs during intimate moments.”

She laughed harder than she had in days.

As the amusement settled, Vos looked at her with a little more seriousness than usual. “You alright, really?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stared into her glass.

“I don’t regret anything I did back then,” she said. “But I hate how it’s all resurfacing. Like that version of me is still dragging shadows into every room I walk into.”

Vos leaned forward, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “You survived a civil war, ended it, and turned your planet toward peace. And now you’re sitting here, sipping wine in the Senate instead of burning in some bunker. That’s not a shadow. That’s a story. And no one tells it better than you.”

She gave him a long look.

“Thanks,” she said quietly.

He winked. “Still not letting you off the hook for kissing both your bodyguards though. That’s just messy.”

She threw a pillow at him.

⸻

The sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, amber hue across the polished floors of her apartment when the soft buzz of her door alerted her to a visitor.

She didn’t expect him.

Not after everything.

When the door slid open, Thorn stood there in full armor, helmet tucked under one arm. His expression was unreadable, guarded in that way soldiers perfected when they didn’t want their emotions to show—except in his eyes. His eyes betrayed something deeper.

“Can I come in?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated… just long enough for him to notice.

Then she stepped aside.

They didn’t speak at first. She returned to her small table where a glass of wine still sat half-drunk, and Vos’ laughter still lingered faintly in the air, as if the apartment hadn’t fully exhaled him yet.

Thorn remained near the doorway, not quite relaxed, not quite tense.

“You don’t have to say it,” she finally murmured, watching the wine swirl in her glass. “I know. You were right.”

He furrowed his brows. “Right about what?”

She gave a soft, dry laugh. “That this was a mistake. All of it.”

Thorn exhaled sharply, stepping closer. “That’s not what I meant. Not really.”

“You kissed me.”

“You pushed me,” he said with a flicker of that fire that always simmered under his calm. “And I wanted to be kissed.”

She looked up at him. “And then Fox sent you back like a cadet who got caught sneaking out.”

His jaw flexed. “Because I let my feelings show. Because I let him see something he didn’t want to see.”

She stood slowly, her voice gentle but firm. “Thorn… this is dangerous. For both of us. And not just because of rank.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still here.”

He nodded. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Even after the fight. Even after watching Fox—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

She stepped closer now, mere inches between them. “You’re jealous.”

He didn’t deny it. “I’m angry. Because I tried to walk away. I tried to be the one who did the right thing.”

“And I ruined that for you?”

He looked at her—really looked at her—and in that moment there was no senator, no clone, no war. Just two people with too much history already bleeding into every breath.

“No,” he said quietly. “You made it impossible for me to pretend I didn’t care.”

There was silence.

Then she reached out and touched his chestplate with her fingers, barely grazing it.

“Then stop pretending,” she said.

But neither of them moved.

Neither of them stepped closer.

Not yet.

Not until the next moment demanded it.

Thorn stood still, looking at her hand on his chest like it burned. Maybe it did. Maybe it branded him in a way his armor couldn’t protect against. His voice was low, raw. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why?” she asked, just as softly. “Because you might believe me?”

He set his helmet down on the table with a heavy thud and finally stepped into her space—close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the tension wound tight beneath his skin. She thought he might kiss her again, but he didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he reached up and gently ran his knuckles along her cheek, like she might vanish if he touched her too firmly. “You terrify me,” he murmured.

She didn’t laugh. “You don’t scare easy.”

“I’ve marched into blaster fire. Held the line when we were outnumbered twenty to one. I’ve watched brothers die and kept moving.” He shook his head slowly. “But I’ve never wanted anything I wasn’t supposed to have. Until you.”

The words were quiet. Devastating.

Her hand slid up his chestplate, then around the back of his neck, pulling him closer—slowly, as if giving him a chance to step away.

He didn’t.

Their lips met with a quiet kind of urgency, like a dam that had finally cracked. It wasn’t the heat of two people caught in lust—it was aching, it was slow, it was raw with everything they’d tried to suppress. His hands found her waist, pulling her in gently, like he couldn’t believe she was really there.

She guided him out of the armor piece by piece, fingers steady, eyes never leaving his. When he pulled her to the bedroom, it wasn’t with dominance or control, but with reverence.

There, stripped of titles, armor, and pretense, they became something fragile and real.

He kissed her like a man desperate to remember softness.

She held him like someone who hadn’t been touched without expectation in years.

And when they lay tangled afterward, skin to skin in the stillness, his fingers traced the scars on her shoulder without asking about them. She didn’t offer the stories. Not yet. But she turned her head to rest against his chest and felt his heartbeat settle under her cheek.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then he said, almost too quiet to hear, “I don’t know how to protect you from this. From Fox. From me.”

She closed her eyes.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just stay.”

And he did.

⸻

Thorn woke first.

For a moment, he didn’t move—afraid that if he did, it would break whatever fragile illusion he was trapped in. The room was bathed in soft morning light, filtered through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly in the Coruscant breeze. Outside, speeders hummed far below, distant and dull. But inside…

Peace.

Real, disarming peace.

She was still asleep, curled against him, her breathing even and steady. Her hand was draped lightly over his stomach, and her leg was tangled with his beneath the covers. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him without urgency. No missions. No blood. No orders. Just… this.

Serenity.

And it terrified him more than battle ever could.

His hand moved on its own, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, then resting against her bare back. The warmth of her skin anchored him. Her scent lingered faintly—clean, soft, a little sweet—and he closed his eyes just to soak in the feeling a little longer.

She stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before blinking awake.

“Mmm… you’re still here,” she said softly, her voice half-sleep, half-smile.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “I am.”

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers tracing a small scar near his collarbone. “You always this quiet in the morning?”

“Not usually awake this long without an alert blaring in my ear.”

She chuckled lightly. “Well… no alarms here.”

He nodded slowly, gaze drifting to the ceiling, as though trying to memorize the silence. “It’s strange. This—” he glanced down at her “—all of it. Quiet. Safe. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this.”

“You don’t like it?” she asked, teasing gently, but there was something vulnerable beneath it.

“I didn’t say that.” He met her eyes. “I just… don’t know how to trust it. Or how long it’ll last.”

She leaned in, brushing her lips softly over the scar on his jaw. “Maybe that’s what makes it worth having.”

For a long time, they stayed there. No rushing. No secrets. Just breath and skin and warmth.

He never thought he’d have something like this—however brief.

⸻

Fox stood outside the senator’s residence, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d been pacing for ten minutes.

It was ridiculous. He’d faced death, treason, riots, bombs—Jedi. And yet nothing left him this gutted. This unsure.

Just say it. Say something. Anything.

She deserved to know. After everything. After the tension, the stolen glances, the fights, and—Force help him—the kiss. Thorn might have made his move first, but Fox wasn’t going to keep his silence anymore.

His fist hovered near the door chime.

He didn’t press it.

“Standing there long enough to grow roots, Commander?” Hound’s voice cut in, casual and amused.

Fox turned sharply to find Hound leaning against the nearest pillar with his arms crossed, Grizzer panting beside him, tail wagging lazily. Thire stood just behind, arms behind his back in mock-formal stance, an insufferable little smirk tugging at his lips.

“I swear,” Fox muttered, “the two of you have the worst timing.”

“Oh, don’t mind us,” Thire said, trying and failing to look innocent. “We just figured we’d keep an eye on our ever-composed Marshal Commander before he does something insane like… confess feelings.”

Fox gave him a glare that could have melted phrik plating.

“Just don’t bite anyone this time,” Hound added with a sidelong glance at Grizzer, who barked once and licked Fox’s hand.

“I didn’t bite anyone,” Fox growled.

“No, you didn’t,” Thire said under his breath.

Fox was about to fire back a very direct suggestion when—

“Oh, what is this delightful little pow-wow?” came a voice from behind them, smug and syrupy smooth.

All four turned just in time to see Quinlan Vos lounging in the hallway, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the building.

Fox clenched his jaw.

Vos looked far too pleased with himself. “Let me guess… someone was finally going to admit they’re hopelessly in love with the senator? Or was it going to be another punch-up over who gets to carry her datapad?”

“Vos,” Fox said in warning, already half-drawing himself up to full height.

Vos waved a hand. “Relax, Commander Killjoy. I’m just here to observe. Gossip from Kenobi is delicious lately. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep up with all the drama.”

Thire bit back a laugh.

Fox sighed through his nose and muttered, “I’m going to regret not stunning him.”

Vos gave him a wink. “You already do.”

Fox turned back toward the door and this time raised his hand again.

Then lowered it.

Vos raised an eyebrow. “Need me to knock for you?”

Fox turned and walked away.

⸻

Quinlan Vos strolled into the senator’s apartment like he owned the place. He didn’t knock. He didn’t announce himself. He didn’t ask. Naturally.

That wasn’t the Vos way.

He’d barely made it three steps past the threshold when a shape rounded the corner from the hallway—bare chest, tousled hair, pants only halfway buttoned, a blaster slung low on one hip like he’d half expected a fight.

Commander Thorn froze.

Vos grinned.

“Oh,” Vos said, voice all sunshine and sin. “Well this explains why Fox has been spiraling.”

Thorn blinked, assessing, a quiet, burning calculation forming in his eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Vos gestured vaguely at the security panel. “I’ve got my ways. Jedi and their spooky talents, you know.”

“That’s not an answer,” Thorn replied coolly, stepping forward, muscles taut like coiled wire beneath sun-kissed skin. “This is a secure residence.”

“And yet…” Vos made a sweeping gesture around the room. “Here I am.”

Thorn glared.

“Relax, soldier boy. I didn’t see anything,” Vos said, though his smirk implied otherwise. “Well… not everything. Just enough to put together why Fox looked like he was going to snap a durasteel beam in half.”

“You here for a reason or just looking to get punched again?” Thorn said, folding his arms across his bare chest.

Vos’s eyes drifted—not subtly—to Thorn’s arms, then his jaw, then back to his eyes. “Tempting. But no.”

He took a lazy step further into the apartment. “I came to drop some news, actually. Then maybe raid her liquor cabinet, trade some gossip, and go back to annoying every clone I’ve ever met.”

Thorn didn’t move. “She’s not here.”

Vos cocked his head. “She usually is around this hour. Let me guess—you wore her out?”

The look Thorn gave him could’ve killed a man if it had weight.

“Fine, fine,” Vos said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wait. Shirtless hostility aside, I do like you, Thorn. You’ve got a nice left hook.”

“You try me again, you’ll meet the right one.”

Vos grinned, utterly unbothered.

“And for the record,” Thorn added, tone low and steely, “if you ever break into this apartment again—Jedi or not—I’ll throw you off the balcony.”

Vos tapped his chin thoughtfully. “What floor is this again?”

“High enough.”

Vos clapped his hands once. “Noted.”

He wandered to the couch, dropped onto it like he lived there, and propped his boots up on the table.

Thorn watched him like one might a wild nexu.

⸻

She wasn’t expecting anyone when the lift doors opened on her floor.

She certainly wasn’t expecting him.

Fox.

Full armor. Helmet off. That sharp, unreadable expression carved into his face like durasteel. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The corridor lights hummed low between them. His eyes—dark, stormy, and too honest—met hers.

Behind him, lingering at a respectful distance, were Hound, Thire… and Grizzer, sitting dutifully by Hound’s side, tongue lolling, tail tapping quietly against the floor.

She blinked. “Fox?”

His jaw flexed. “Senator.”

She stepped out of the lift slowly, feeling the air shift between them. Vos was still upstairs—gods help her—but seeing Fox like this, seeing the way he looked at her, like he had something on the tip of his tongue and couldn’t let it go, sent her pulse thrumming.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, softer than she meant.

“I was going to…” He trailed off, mouth pressing into a firm line. He glanced over his shoulder toward Hound and Thire, who were doing their absolute best to not look like they were listening—while very much listening.

Grizzer gave a low grumble.

Fox sighed. “I was going to talk to you.”

The senator tilted her head slightly. “About?”

He shook his head, gaze sharp, searching her face. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I knew what I wanted to say but… seeing you now…”

There was something in his eyes. Regret. Hunger. Guilt.

“You’ve already seen me,” she said gently. “That’s not the part you’re afraid of.”

He breathed in through his nose, like he wanted to steady himself—but it didn’t work. “You’re not making this easy.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Behind him, Hound cleared his throat. Loudly.

Fox’s eye twitched.

She stepped closer, brushing past him deliberately slow as she whispered near his ear, “If you have something to say, Marshal Commander, say it. Before someone else does first.”

His breath hitched.

Grizzer barked softly, tail thumping louder now. A silent warning. Or encouragement. Hard to tell.

Fox straightened, but didn’t follow her as she walked past him toward her door.

He stood still, watching.

And then—finally—he turned and walked away.

⸻

Fox had barely turned the corner when his men caught up with him. The quiet corridor buzzed with tension and discontent. Hound and Thire exchanged knowing looks as they trailed close behind.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Fox?” Hound demanded in a low voice, eyes narrowing.

“You had the chance—” Thire piped in, his tone laced with exasperated disbelief.

“A commander should speak when it matters. We expected more from you.”

Hound scoffed. “You were standing there like a malfunctioning protocol droid. What the hell happened to your plan?”

“I had a plan,” Fox muttered. “Then she looked at me.”

Fox’s jaw was set, and his silence only fueled the growing argument. He kept walking, head bowed, but the clones weren’t having it. Voices rose, accusations bounced around the corridor like stray blaster fire, until suddenly a commotion broke the standoff.

Fox’s eye twitched. “Not helping.”

“I am helping,” Hound insisted. “You’re just being—Grizzer, no!”

It was too late.

The mastiff had leapt up on his hind legs, snatched Fox’s helmet clean out of his arms with his teeth, and sprinted off like a warhound possessed.

Fox stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, hells no,” Thire groaned, taking off after him. “That helmet’s got tracking tech and encryption!”

“He’s headed back toward—oh kriff—”

The three of them took off after Grizzer, who had already bounded back into the senator’s building. He knew exactly where he was going.

“Hound,” Fox wheezed as they rounded the stairwell. “If that animal gets us court-martialed, I’m taking you with me.”

Up another flight. And another.

They reached her apartment door just in time to see Grizzer’s large paws scratching at it, tail wagging like this was the most normal thing he’d ever done.

Before anyone could knock or grab the hound, the door swung open.

The senator stood there, blinking.

Grizzer barreled in, tail high, helmet still in his mouth. And—because clearly this day wasn’t chaotic enough—the three clones followed him in before she could even speak.

“Grizzer!” Hound hissed. “Drop it—”

The senator raised a brow, calmly closing the door behind them as she looked around.

Thorn stepped into view from the hallway, half-buttoning up a shirt that still hung open on his chest, a faint bite mark peeking near his collarbone.

Fox blinked and looked anywhere but there.

“Thorn,” he greeted flatly.

“Fox,” Thorn said, with a faint smirk. “Hound. Thire.”

And then—“Fid you scale my balcony again?” the senator called out, walking toward the living room.

“Technically no,” came a familiar, smug voice. “I came in the actual door this time.”

Vos was sprawled on the couch, feet up, eating something from her fruit bowl. A communicator was open in his palm.

“Kenobi says hi,” Vos added, holding up the comm.

“Why is Kenobi—” the senator stopped, pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind. Of course he is.”

Fox was still standing near the threshold, utterly still, face redder than a Coruscanti sunset.

Grizzer trotted up to him and finally, finally dropped the helmet at his feet like a trophy.

“Thanks,” Fox muttered.

“You’re welcome,” the senator said, tone dry.

Vos grinned. “You boys want drinks or…?”

“No,” all three clones snapped in unison.

The senator crossed her arms, her expression flat with just a hint of amusement.

“Anyone else planning to enter uninvited?” she asked. “Any Jedi lurking in the vents? More clones rappelling down from the roof?”

Vos didn’t even look up from his seat. “I think Kenobi and Cody are fine where they are,” he said casually, waving the comm. “Say hi, boys.”

“Hello, Senator,” Kenobi’s voice came through crystal-clear. “Lovely morning. Very dramatic. Please continue.”

“Cody’s listening too,” Vos added. “He’s muted. He wants the unedited drama.”

Fox closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

Meanwhile, Thire nudged Fox hard with an elbow. “You gonna tell her or not?”

“Tell her what?” Thorn asked, stepping into the living room, now actually buttoning his shirt. “We’ve all made enough of a scene this week—what’s another confession?”

Hound, in the corner, was crouched with Grizzer. “You’re on thin ice, you little thief,” he muttered as Grizzer panted happily, tongue lolling and proud of himself.

“Fox has something to say,” Thire announced helpfully, louder this time.

Fox shot him a glare that could’ve cut durasteel. “I will demote you.”

“From what?” Thire smirked. “From one of your only friends? Go ahead, Marshal Commander.”

The senator arched a brow. “You’ve been trying to tell me something, Commander?”

Fox cleared his throat, suddenly stiff. “I—it’s not exactly the right moment.”

“Oh, no, now it is,” Thorn said, folding his arms. “You ran off this morning. You stood outside the door for five minutes. You let a dog start this diplomatic crisis. Now you’re here, with an audience. No better time.”

Vos, lounging like he was poolside, grinned wider. “He’s right. Go on. Tell the pretty senator how much you want to kiss her boots or whatever it is that’s making you punch your own men in the jaw.”

“I didn’t punch him over—” Fox stopped himself. His voice dropped. “You know what? Fine.”

He stepped forward.

All the clones went quiet. Even Grizzer stopped panting.

The senator met his eyes, unreadable.

“I care about you,” Fox said, low and raw, like every word was an uphill battle. “More than I should. I’ve tried to be professional. I’ve tried to respect the fact that you’re a senator, and I’m a soldier—but I’ve failed. I’ve failed spectacularly. And I’m tired of pretending I haven’t.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Kenobi’s voice broke it.

“Finally,” he muttered. “That’s been excruciating.”

Vos cackled. “Cody says he owes me twenty credits. I told him you’d say it first.”

Fox looked like he might combust on the spot. The senator, for once, seemed genuinely speechless.

Thorn’s jaw tightened.

“So what now?” he asked, his tone flat but his eyes stormy. “You said it. What changes?”

Fox looked at him directly. “I don’t know.”

The tension in the room twisted tighter, like a drawn bow.

The senator sighed and turned away, pouring herself a drink—one for her, one for Fox, and, hesitantly, one for Thorn.

“Congratulations,” she said dryly, handing the glass to Fox. “You all ruined a perfectly quiet morning.”

Vos raised his own glass from the couch. “To chaos. And confessions.”

“Shut up, Vos,” Thorn and Fox said at the same time.

⸻

“Well,” Obi-Wan said, sipping his tea on the Temple balcony, “that was messier than I expected.”

Cody chuckled from where he leaned against the railing. “You expected something else? Fox, Thorn, a senator, a mastiff, and Vos all in one room? You should’ve known better.”

Obi-Wan gave him a wry look. “I do know better. But I still hold out hope for dignity.”

Cody snorted. “No dignity left in that room. Pretty sure Vos filmed it. He’s probably editing the holo as we speak.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Obi-Wan muttered.

Cody paused, glancing down at the datapad he’d been half-scrolling through. “Honestly, I never thought Fox would crack. The man’s a walking fortress. But after everything, I guess… even he has limits.”

“Of course he does,” Obi-Wan said. “They all do. They were never meant to hold in so much for so long.”

A heavy silence settled between them, not somber—but thoughtful. Until—

“He shouldn’t be cracking.”

Both men turned their heads.

Marshal Commander Neyo had approached silently, his armor immaculate, posture as rigid as durasteel. He stood with his hands behind his back, his expression as frosted as ever.

“Fox is unfit,” Neyo said coolly. “He’s lost control of his unit, he’s fraternizing with a senator, and his judgment is compromised. He should’ve been relieved of command cycles ago.”

Cody straightened, not quite defensive yet, but no longer relaxed. “He’s had it hard, Neyo. You know that.”

“We’ve all had it hard,” Neyo snapped. “That’s not an excuse. The Guard isn’t a soap opera. It isn’t some… emotional playground. What he’s doing compromises the entire integrity of the Guard. And by extension, the Chancellor’s security.”

Obi-Wan’s brow lifted. “You’re saying a man who’s devoted his life to that very cause is now a liability because he’s caught feelings?”

“I’m saying he’s made it personal,” Neyo replied coldly. “And personal costs lives.”

Cody’s jaw tensed. “He’s not a droid, Neyo. He’s a soldier. A man. He’s not perfect, but he’s held the line longer than most of us could.”

Neyo’s expression didn’t shift. “Then maybe it’s time someone else held the line.”

He turned on his heel and walked off without another word.

Obi-Wan watched him go, then sighed into his cup. “Do you ever wonder what it would take to get Neyo to actually crack?”

Cody muttered, “Yeah. But I think even then, he’d just shatter quietly and judge everyone else for crying.”

Obi-Wan let out a soft laugh. “What about Fox?”

Cody was quiet for a beat too long. Then, with rare honesty: “He won’t shatter. He’ll burn.”

⸻

The senator hadn’t slept.

Her apartment was quiet now, the chaos from earlier a memory reduced to half-drunk tea, a discarded clone pauldron by the couch, and Vos’s lingering laughter echoing faintly in her ears. He’d long since vanished—probably off to stir up more drama with a HoloNet gossip blog or Jedi Council member who didn’t ask to be looped into romantic entanglements.

She sat curled up on the edge of her window seat, the city stretching far below, wrapped in the blue shimmer of Coruscant’s dusk.

The door chimed once.

She didn’t answer.

It slid open anyway.

“Senator,” Thorn’s voice came first, soft but firm.

She turned her head to see both of them—Thorn and Fox—standing side by side but somehow miles apart. They looked battle-ready in posture but stripped bare in the eyes. Thorn held his helmet in one hand, arms stiff at his sides. Fox stood with his arms behind his back, jaw clenched, shadows around his eyes making him look ten years older.

Neither looked like they wanted to be the one to speak first.

So she did. “If this is about earlier—”

“It is,” Fox said, cutting in, voice sharp but not cruel. “It has to be.”

Thorn glanced at him, then at her. “We can’t keep dancing around it.”

She folded her hands in her lap, brows pulling together. “I didn’t ask either of you to—”

“No,” Thorn interrupted gently. “You didn’t. But we’re here anyway.”

Fox moved a step forward, his tone tighter. “You’ve made space for both of us, and I know it wasn’t your intention, but—” He paused, exhaled hard. “It’s tearing everything apart.”

Her eyes widened, throat tightening. “Fox—”

“You have to choose,” he said flatly.

The silence afterward felt like a vacuum.

Thorn didn’t speak up to disagree.

He looked at her, gaze softer but no less serious. “I know what we’ve shared. I don’t regret any of it. But I can’t… I won’t keep putting you in the middle. Not if it’s hurting you.”

She stood slowly, her hands falling to her sides, eyes bouncing between them—Fox in his red and black, expression restrained but brimming. Thorn, still rumpled from their quiet morning, eyes carrying the weight of every soft moment they hadn’t dared name.

“I care for both of you,” she admitted, voice raw. “But this—this isn’t fair to any of us. You want me to choose like it’s easy. Like it’s a battle strategy. But this isn’t war. This is my heart.”

Fox’s jaw ticked. Thorn dropped his gaze.

“I’ve spent years making impossible decisions,” she continued. “And most of them got people killed or broken. But this? I don’t want to choose between two people who’ve risked everything to protect me. Two people I trust.” Her voice cracked. “Two people I never meant to hurt.”

Fox looked at the floor. Thorn looked away.

“I can’t choose,” she whispered. “Not now.”

Neither man spoke.

And for the first time in a long time, she wished someone would just give her an order.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.4

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Thorn didn’t storm. That wasn’t his style. He walked with purpose, armor humming low with motion, cape swaying behind him like a whisper of discipline.

But Hound noticed.

He was lounging against a supply crate near the barracks entrance, tossing a ration bar to Grizzer, who promptly ignored it in favor of chewing on a ruined training boot.

“Evening, Commander,” Hound said, biting back a grin. “You walk like someone just voted to cut rations for clones with sense.”

Thorn didn’t answer. He brushed past, stopped, and then turned around so sharply Hound blinked.

“Why the hell does she smile like that?” Thorn muttered.

Hound blinked again. “…Pardon?”

“Senator,” Thorn said curtly. “The senator. She smiles like she doesn’t care that we’re built for war. Like we’re not walking weapons. Like she’s not afraid of what we are.”

Grizzer let out a soft woof.

Hound tilted his head. “So… what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” Thorn said, pacing now, his helmet under one arm, “is that I find myself caring about her smile. Noticing it. Waiting for it. The nerve of her—walking between two commanders like it’s nothing. Like we’re not trained to see everything as a threat. Like she’s not a threat.”

“To what? Your assignment?” Hound asked, amused. “Or your emotional stability?”

Thorn glared. Grizzer whined, wandered over, and bumped his head into Thorn’s shin. He reached down and idly scratched behind the mastiff’s ears.

“She got under your skin,” Hound said, chewing on the stem of a stim-pop. “Happens to the best of us. She’s clever. Looks good in those robes. Has a backbone of beskar. What’s not to notice?”

“I don’t want to notice.”

“Ah, but you do.”

Thorn didn’t reply.

He sat down heavily on the bench beside Hound, setting his helmet down beside him.

“I shouldn’t even be thinking about this. About her.”

“She flirt with you?”

Thorn hesitated. “Not… obviously.”

“But enough to make Fox irritated.”

Thorn raised a brow. “You noticed that too.”

“Please. Fox’s expression didn’t change, but the man started walking closer to her like she was carrying his damn tracking chip.” Hound chuckled. “Bet he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.”

They sat in silence for a minute.

Grizzer dropped the training boot in front of Thorn and wagged his tail.

Thorn stared at the mangled leather. “That’s about how my brain feels.”

Hound laughed. “Commander, you need sleep.”

“I need a reassignment.”

“You need to admit she’s under your skin and figure out how not to let it compromise your professionalism.”

Thorn exhaled slowly.

“Can’t let it show.”

“Good,” Hound nodded. “Now come inside before Grizzer starts thinking you’ve become a chew toy too.”

Thorn stood, gave the mastiff a final scratch behind the ears, and retrieved his helmet.

He didn’t say another word—but the weight in his steps had shifted. Just a little.

Not lighter. Not heavier.

Just more aware.

⸻

The city was unusually quiet that evening. The hum of speeders far below faded beneath the hush of twilight. The Coruscant skyline glowed, glass and durasteel kissed by soft reds and purples.

Fox didn’t linger in beautiful places.

He was there on duty, posted near the upper balcony where the senator had stepped out “just for a breath.” He hadn’t planned to engage, only observe, protect, return.

But she hadn’t gone back inside.

She leaned against the railing, alone, hair pinned up loosely, a datapad forgotten beside her, as if the very idea of responsibility repulsed her in that moment.

He waited a respectful distance. Still. Silent. Like always.

Then she spoke.

“You ever wonder if all this”—she gestured to the skyline—“is actually worth protecting?”

He said nothing. He was trained for silence. Expected to maintain it.

But her voice was quieter this time. “Sorry. I know that’s dark. I just—feel like I’m holding up a wall no one else wants to fix.”

Fox found himself responding before he thought better of it. “That’s the job.”

She turned slightly, surprised.

He added, “Holding up the wall.”

The senator gave him a faint, exhausted smile. “Do you ever feel like it’s crumbling under your feet anyway?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He took a step closer instead.

A small thing. Measured. Not enough to draw attention.

But enough for her to notice.

Her gaze lowered to the space now between them. “Commander,” she said gently, teasingly, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were getting comfortable.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

She tilted her head. “Shame. It’s a lovely view.”

He said nothing, but his eyes didn’t move from her.

And then—

She turned away. Not dramatically. Just slowly, thoughtfully, brushing a finger along the rail’s edge.

“It’s funny,” she said, voice soft again. “I think I trust you more than I trust half the Senate.”

“You shouldn’t,” he replied, too quickly.

She looked over her shoulder. “Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Because the truth was—

He didn’t know.

He looked away first.

You stared.

Fox was composed, always. The kind of man who spoke with fewer words than most used in a breath. You’d watched him through Senate hearings, committee debriefings, and those long silences standing at your side. He was built for control—stone-set and unshakable.

Which is why this moment felt like seeing a fault line in a mountain.

You stepped toward him.

Just slightly.

“I asked why not,” you repeated, your voice lower now. Not coy. Not teasing. Just… honest.

Fox’s helmet was clipped to his belt, his posture precise. But his jaw had locked. His brow was tight—not angry, not annoyed.

Guarded.

“You don’t know me,” he finally said, eyes fixed on the horizon like it might offer him cover.

“I know enough,” you replied, softer.

He didn’t move.

You tried again.

“You think I trust people easily?” A dry laugh left you. “I sit beside men who sell planets and call it compromise. I’ve had allies vote against my own bills while smiling at me from across the chamber. But you—when you walk into a room, everything sharpens.”

That got his attention. A flicker of his gaze, brief but direct.

You stepped closer.

“You don’t talk unless it’s important. You watch everything. And no one gets close, not really. But I see the way your men listen when you speak. I see how you stand between danger and everyone else without asking for anything in return.”

His expression didn’t shift. Not much.

But his hands curled faintly at his sides.

“I trust you, Commander,” you said. “And I don’t think that’s a mistake.”

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the edge of your robe.

Fox was quiet for a long time. And then—

“Don’t.”

One word. Clipped. Too sharp to be cold.

You blinked. “Don’t… what?”

He turned to face you fully now, and there was something there—in his eyes, usually so still. Not anger. Not fear.

A warning.

“Don’t mistake professionalism for something it isn’t.”

You looked up at him for a moment, unmoving. “I’m not.”

His jaw flexed. “Then don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

That hit a nerve. You stood straighter, chest tight.

“You don’t get to blame me for not hearing the things you’re too chicken to say,” you said quietly, your voice clipped but steady.

His breath caught—not visibly, not audibly. But you saw it. In the eyes. In the way his shoulders tightened, like something had landed.

But he didn’t respond.

You watched him another moment, then stepped back, retreating into the cool hallway of the Senate building without another word.

He stayed there.

In the quiet.

And stared after you like the words had hit him somewhere unarmored.

The marble under your boots echoed with each step, but you walked without a sound.

The exchange with Fox still thrummed in your chest. The way he’d looked at you. The way he hadn’t.

The way his silence had said too much.

You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to will the flush in your skin to cool. You hadn’t meant to push that far—but stars, you had been waiting for something. Anything. A sign that the wall wasn’t so impenetrable.

You didn’t expect the next voice you heard.

“My dear senator,” came the smooth, silk-wrapped timbre of Chancellor Palpatine.

You froze.

Not because of fear. But because his voice always had that effect.

You turned and offered the practiced smile you reserved for… certain company.

“Chancellor,” you said, clasping your hands politely in front of you. “I didn’t see you.”

He stepped into the corridor from the far end, draped in red and black, expression benevolent, but sharp beneath the surface.

“I was passing through after a long meeting with the Banking Clan representatives. Tense discussions, I’m afraid. I trust you’re well?”

“Well enough,” you replied smoothly. “Just getting some air.”

“Ah,” he said, folding his hands behind his back as he walked beside you. “We all need moments of reflection. Though I imagine yours are far and few between these days. The Senate rarely allows much rest.”

You gave a short laugh. “No. It certainly doesn’t.”

He glanced at you, unreadable.

“I hear the Guard’s been paying close attention to you lately. Commander Fox himself, no less. It’s good to see such… attentiveness. You must feel very safe.”

Your spine straightened slightly. “They’re dedicated men. I’m grateful for their protection.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, the warmth in his tone not quite reaching his eyes. “Still… I hope you remember where your true allies lie.”

You offered him the same tight smile. “Of course, Chancellor.”

He regarded you for a moment longer. “You’ve always been a passionate voice, Senator. Young. Decisive. I do hope you’ll continue to support the efforts of the Republic, especially as we move into… more delicate phases of wartime policy.”

You didn’t flinch. “I serve the people of my system. And I believe in the Republic.”

“But belief,” he said, gently, “is only part of the duty. Sometimes we must make difficult choices. Unpopular ones.”

You met his gaze and gave nothing back.

“Then I hope the right people are making them,” you replied.

His smile thinned. “As do I.”

You inclined your head. “If you’ll excuse me, Chancellor, I do have a report to finish.”

He stepped aside, allowing you to pass.

“Of course. Rest well, Senator. You’ll need your strength.”

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t need to.

The shadow of his presence stretched long after his footsteps faded.

⸻

Fox sat in the dark.

Helmet on the table. Armor half-unclasped. Fingers pressed to the bridge of his nose.

He hadn’t even made it to his bunk.

The locker room was silent, most of the Guard long since rotated out or posted elsewhere. The overheads were dimmed. Only the soft mechanical hum of the lockers and the occasional flicker of red light from an indicator broke the stillness.

But his mind wasn’t still.

He’d heard people raise their voices at him before. Angry senators, frustrated generals, clones pushed to the brink. That was easy. Anger rolled off him like rain off plastoid.

This was different.

She hadn’t said it to wound him.

She’d said it like she meant it.

Like she saw him.

And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to do with that.

His hands flexed in his lap, slow and deliberate. He remembered how she looked tonight—standing under the red-gold skyline, eyes bright but tired, speaking softly like they were the only two people left in the galaxy.

It was wrong. Letting it get to him.

She was a senator. He was a soldier.

It wasn’t supposed to matter what her voice did to his chest.

What the scent of her did to his focus.

He wasn’t Thorn. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t get rattled by conversation, didn’t let his mouth run ahead of his orders.

But… she’d gotten under his skin. Somehow.

Fox exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves.

Then paused.

His thumb hovered over the comlink tucked beside his helmet.

He stared at it for a moment. Not to call her. He wouldn’t.

But just knowing she could.

That if she needed him, his name would be the first thing spoken through the channel.

He set his jaw, stood up, and locked his armor back into place.

Duty first.

Always.

But his mind stayed behind, somewhere on a balcony, in the dusk light… with her.

⸻

The door slid open with its usual soft chime. You stepped inside, heels clicking gently against polished stone, and leaned heavily against the wall the moment it shut behind you.

Exhausted didn’t quite cover it.

The encounter with the Chancellor still lingered like static. And Fox—

Stars above, Fox.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and made your way into the kitchen. You poured yourself something strong and cold, letting the silence of your private apartment sink in.

And then—

The soft buzz of your datapad.

You blinked.

A message.

Not from the Guard.

Not from your aides.

But…

Commander Thorn: Heard there was a rough hearing. You alive in there, or should I break down the door?

You smiled.

And for a moment, the tension eased.

You didn’t reply to Thorn right away.

You stared at the message, lips curving despite the weight still pressing behind your ribs. A chuckle slipped out—quiet, private. The kind meant only for a screen, not a roomful of senators.

Your fingers hovered over the keys for a second before typing:

You: Alive. Barely. Tempted to fake my death and move to Naboo. You free to help bury the body?

The typing indicator blinked back almost immediately.

Thorn: Only if I get first choice on the alias. I vote “Duchess Trouble.”

You: That’s terrible. But I’m keeping it.

Thorn: Thought you might. Get some rest. You earned it today.

You stared at that last line.

You earned it today.

You weren’t sure why those words hit harder than anything in the hearing. Maybe it was because it came from someone who saw things most senators never would. Maybe because it was real.

You typed back:

You: You too, Commander.

And then you set the datapad down, changed out of your formal wear, and let exhaustion carry you to bed.

You weren’t asleep long.

The shrill tone of your emergency comms broke through your dreams like a blaster shot.

You jerked upright, blinking against the haze of sleep, reaching for the device without hesitation.

“H-hello?” your voice cracked, still hoarse from sleep.

A voice—clipped, familiar, urgent—responded.

Fox.

“Senator. There’s been another incident. We’re en route.”

You were already moving. “Where?”

“Senator Mothma’s estate. Explosive detonation near her security gate. No confirmed injuries, but it’s close enough to send a message.”

You froze for only a heartbeat.

“I’ll be ready in five.”

Fox didn’t waste time on reassurance. “We’ll be outside your building. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

The line cut.

You stood in the dark for a second, pulse racing, mind already shifting into survival mode.

Whatever peace you’d clawed out of tonight had just shattered.

⸻

It was a controlled knock—no panic, no urgency—but hard enough to rattle the stillness of the apartment. You flinched, fumbling with your robe as you darted from your bedroom barefoot, still half-dressed.

“Stars, already?” you muttered, cinching the robe at your waist.

The buzzer chimed again.

You hit the panel to open the door.

And there they were.

Fox. Thorn. Towering in crimson armor, backlit by the corridor lights and the glint of Coruscant’s neon skyline. Visors staring forward. Blasters holstered—but you could feel the tension radiating off them like heat from durasteel.

Neither said anything at first.

Then, in a voice low and composed, Fox spoke:

“Senator. We arrived earlier than anticipated.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” you breathed, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. Your robe was thin—too thin, you realized, as the air from the hallway crept over your skin. You crossed your arms instinctively, but it didn’t hide much.

Fox’s helmet tilted slightly—eyes dragging across your form in a quiet, tactical sweep. Not leering. Just… a longer pause than necessary.

Next to him, Thorn cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow at both of them. “Enjoying the view, Commanders?”

They didn’t flinch. Of course they didn’t. Both statues of composure, helmets hiding any flicker of reaction.

Fox spoke again, brisk. “We’ll step inside and secure the apartment. You have five minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” you muttered with mock-formality, brushing past them with bare feet against the floor. As you turned, you caught it—Fox’s head slightly turning to follow your movement. A fraction too long.

And thank the stars for helmets, because if you saw his face, you’d never let him live it down.

They moved through your apartment in practiced rhythm, clearing rooms, scanning corners, locking down windows and possible points of breach. Thorn stayed closer to the door, back to the wall, but his shoulders were taut beneath the red of his armor.

You emerged a few minutes later, dressed properly now—hair pulled back, expression sharpened by the adrenaline still running its course.

Fox glanced your way first. His visor tilted again, more subtle this time.

“All clear,” he said, voice crisp. “You’re to be escorted to the Guard’s secure transport. We’ll be moving now.”

You met his visor with a crooked smile. “You didn’t even compliment my robe.”

Thorn, behind him, let out a breath. It might’ve been a laugh. Or a sigh of please, not now.

Fox said nothing.

But his shoulders stiffened just slightly.

And as you stepped between them, one on each side, the heat of their presence pressed in like a second skin.

Danger waited out there.

But for now, this tension?

This was its own kind of war.

⸻

The hum of the engine filled the silence. City lights flared and blurred past the transparisteel windows as the transport cut through the lower atmosphere. Inside, the dim blue glow from the dash consoles painted all three of you in a cold, unflinching light.

Fox sat across from you, arms folded, helmet still on. Thorn was beside him, angled slightly your way—watching the shadows outside like they might reach in and pull the vehicle apart.

No one spoke at first.

It was you who finally broke the silence.

“This isn’t random, is it?”

Fox’s head turned. Slowly. “No.”

Thorn added, “Three incidents in four days. All different targets, different methods. But same message.”

You nodded, arms tucked around yourself. “The threat’s not just violence—it’s disruption. Fear. Shake up the ones trying to hold the peace together.”

Fox leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Senator Organa’s transport was sabotaged. Padmé Amidala intercepted a coded threat embedded in one of her Senate droid updates. And now Mothma’s estate.”

“All prominent senators,” Thorn said. “Known for opposing authoritarian measures, trade blockades, or Separatist sympathies. Whoever this is… they’re strategic.”

“And the Senate’s pretending it’s coincidence.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Cowards.”

Fox didn’t respond, but you saw it in the turn of his helmet—like he’d heard a truth too sharp to name.

Thorn’s voice cut the quiet next. “You’re on the list too, Senator. Whether they’ve moved or not, you’ve been marked.”

You met his gaze, even through the visor. “That’s not exactly comforting, Commander.”

“You wanted honesty,” he replied quietly.

You blinked, caught off guard—not just by the words, but the tone. Low. Sincere. Laced with something warmer than protocol.

Fox shifted, barely. A turn of his body, a flicker of subtle tension.

“They’ll keep escalating,” he said. “We don’t know how far.”

The transport took a turn, and city lights streamed in again, outlining their armor in a way that made them seem more like war statues than men.

And yet, when you looked at them—Fox silent and braced for anything, Thorn watching you with just the slightest flicker of concern behind the visor—it wasn’t fear that struck you.

It was the creeping awareness that maybe the danger outside wasn’t the only storm building.

⸻

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

“Red and Loyal” pt.1

Commander Fox x Senator Reader

Your voice echoed in the Senate chamber, sharp and laced with desperation.

“They are massing on our borders. Do you understand what that means? My people are not soldiers. If the Separatists come, we won’t stand a chance.”

Bail Organa looked at you with soft regret. Padmé Amidala gave you a sympathetic nod. Even Mon Mothma lowered her eyes.

But sympathy didn’t stop invasions.

Mas Amedda cleared his throat, voice cold. “Senator, the Grand Army’s resources are stretched thin. Reinforcements are already dispatched to Felucia and Mygeeto. We cannot spare more.”

You felt like you’d been struck.

“So we are to be sacrificed?” you snapped, voice rising. “Left to be slaughtered while this chamber debates logistics?”

Whispers erupted. Chancellor Palpatine raised a hand, calm and unbothered. “We understand your concern, Senator. But this is war. Sacrifices must be made.”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you bowed stiffly and left the chamber before your fury bled into something less diplomatic.

⸻

You didn’t notice him at first—too blinded by anger, by heartbreak, by the fear that your people were going to die for nothing.

But as you stormed through the marble corridors of the Senate building, your shoulder collided with armor.

Red.

Hard.

You looked up—into the steady, unreadable face of Commander Fox.

He barely moved. His arm reached out instinctively, steadying you. “Senator.”

You blinked. You hadn’t realized you were trembling.

“Commander,” you said, voice sharper than you meant.

Fox tilted his head slightly. “Rough session?”

You laughed bitterly. “Only if you consider being told to watch your world burn while they debate budgets rough.”

He said nothing. Not at first. Just watched you, eyes tracking every twitch of emotion on your face.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, shaking your head. “You don’t need to hear that. You’ve got your own war to fight.”

“I listen better than most senators,” he said quietly.

You blinked.

Fox’s voice was never warm. It was always firm, controlled. Professional.

But this—this was different.

You leaned against the wall, fighting the tears building behind your eyes. “I’m a senator and I’m still powerless.”

“You care,” Fox said, after a beat. “That already makes you different.”

You looked at him. “Do you ever get used to it?”

He was silent. His jaw tensed.

“No,” he said. “But you learn to live with it. Or you break.”

You didn’t realize your hand had drifted close to his until your fingers brushed the back of his glove. A mistake. Or maybe not.

He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

The air between you was taut. Too intimate for a Senate hallway. Too dangerous for two people on opposite sides of a professional line.

And yet…

“If there’s anything I can do,” Fox said, voice low, “for your people… or for you…”

You looked up at him, studying the man beneath the red armor. The one with the tired eyes and careful words. The one who could have kept walking but didn’t.

“You already have,” you whispered.

And then you were gone—leaving Fox standing there, staring at the spot where you’d been.

Fingers still tingling.

⸻

The shuttle’s engines hummed low, a mechanical purr echoing through the Senate docks. The air was thick with fuel, heat, and tension. Your transport was nearly ready—small, lightly defended, and insufficient for what lay ahead, but it would take you home.

You stared out across the city skyline, heart pounding.

They said you were making a mistake. They said returning to your home world was suicide.

But it was your world.

And if it was going to fall, it wouldn’t do so without you standing beside it.

You heard the footsteps before you saw them—measured, purposeful.

Then: the unmistakable voice of Chancellor Palpatine, oiled and theatrical.

“Ah, Senator. So determined.” He approached, flanked by crimson-robed guards and the sharper silhouettes of red Coruscant Guard armor.

Commander Fox stood behind him, helm off, unreadable as ever.

You straightened. “Chancellor.”

“I’ve come to offer you a final word of advice,” Palpatine said smoothly, folding his hands. “Returning to your planet now would be… ill-advised. The situation is deteriorating rapidly.”

You lifted your chin. “Which is why I must be there. My people are scared. They need to see someone hasn’t abandoned them.”

Palpatine sighed, as if burdened by your courage. “Yes, I suspected as much.”

He turned slightly, gesturing behind him.

“I anticipated you would refuse counsel, so I’ve taken the liberty of organizing a security detail to accompany you.”

Your brows furrowed.

“Commander Fox, accompanied by his men” he said, voice silk. “And a squad of my most loyal Guardsmen. Until the Senate can act, they will serve as your protection detail.”

Your eyes snapped to Fox, stunned. He met your gaze with that same unreadable intensity—but his stance was different. Less rigid. Like he had volunteered.

“I…” You turned to Palpatine. “Thank you, Chancellor.”

He gave you a benign smile. “Don’t thank me. Thank Commander Fox. He was the one who insisted your safety be taken seriously.”

Your breath caught.

Palpatine gave a slight bow and turned, robes billowing as he departed with his guards, leaving the dock strangely quiet again.

You looked at Fox.

“You insisted?”

He stepped forward, stopping just shy of arm’s reach. “You’re not a soldier. You shouldn’t have to walk into a war zone alone.”

“Neither should you,” you said softly.

He blinked. “It’s different.”

“Is it?”

You held his gaze for a moment too long.

Fox shifted, jaw tight. “My orders are to protect you. And I intend to do that.”

There was something in his voice. Something unspoken.

“I’m not helpless, you know,” you said, voice a little gentler. “But I’m… glad it’s you.”

His eyes flickered.

“You’ll be staying close, then?” you asked, half teasing, half aching to hear the answer.

“Yes,” he said. No hesitation. “Wherever you are, I’ll be close.”

The words lingered between you. Heavy. Charged.

You nodded slowly, stepping toward the shuttle ramp. “Well then, Commander. Shall we?”

He followed you silently. And when you boarded that ship—uncertain of what awaited—you didn’t feel so alone anymore.

⸻

The ship was mid-hyperspace, engines humming steadily, the stars stretched thin and white outside the viewport like strands of pulled light.

You sat quietly near the front cabin, reading reports from home—civilians evacuating cities, militia forming in panic. Your fingers were white-knuckled around the datapad, but you didn’t notice. Not when your ears were quietly tuned to the conversation just beyond the corridor.

Fox’s men weren’t exactly quiet.

⸻

“Okay,” Thire muttered, not even trying to keep his voice down. “So let me get this straight. You volunteered us for this mission?”

“You hate senators,” Stone chimed in, boots kicked up on a storage crate. “Like… passionately.”

“And politics,” Hound added, his strill sniffing at a nearby panel before letting out a low growl. “And public speaking. And long transport rides. This is literally all your nightmares rolled into one.”

“I didn’t volunteer,” Fox said flatly.

“Didn’t you, though?” Thire drawled.

“We were assigned.”

“You asked to be assigned,” Hound smirked. “Big difference.”

“Orders are orders,” Fox said, clearly trying to end it.

“Right,” Stone said. “And the fact that she’s smart, brave, and has eyes that could melt a blaster coil—totally unrelated.”

Fox didn’t respond.

There was a pause.

“You’re not denying it,” Hound grinned, teeth flashing.

“You’re all on report,” Fox muttered darkly.

“Oh no,” Thire said with mock horror. “You’re going to write me up for noticing you have a crush?”

Fox growled.

“Come on, vod,” Stone said, voice a little gentler. “She’s not like the others. She actually gives a damn. And she looked gutted after the Senate meeting. Anyone could see that.”

“She’s brave,” Fox admitted, low. “She shouldn’t have to do this alone.”

They all went quiet for a beat.

Then Thire leaned in, grinning. “We’re just saying. If you start calling her cyar’ika, we’ll know what’s up.”

Fox shoved the heel of his hand against his temple and groaned.

You were definitely not supposed to have heard any of that.

And yet… here you were, biting back a smile and pretending to be Very Deeply Focused on your datapad, heart fluttering unhelpfully in your chest.

He cared.

He was trying not to—but he cared.

And for someone like Fox, who lived his life behind armor and discipline, that meant everything.

Next Part

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