Commander Thorn - Blog Posts

Something fluffy that I’ve been working on for fun these past weeks. 

Thorn is the best bro, Stone is here to just make fun, the Trooper name is Prankster and his pranks are the reason Fox has gray hair. 

Transcription:

Keep reading

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. 

I missed my favourite Coruscant Guards so here is Thorn and Fox!

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 )

TOOKA TOOKA

It has not even been a rotation before commander cody came down to the Corrie hq namely to the drunk tank with boil to pick up Lt waxer and corporal Wooley who had been arrested for massive complaints of starting a tooka revolution or as they would say.

waxer: "commander..whatever they said we d-did not." *waxer tried to defend now under the harsh looks he got from boil and Cody who where not amused.* "b-boil I swear I can explain it was Wooley who gave me the ideas."

wooley: "tooka legion shall rise!" *wooley threw his hands in the air giggling and hiccuping from the cot welded to the wall for people to sit on. Wooley was pretty much not even listening*

commander Cody: "you both I have the right mind to leave you di'kuts here to sober up."

boil: waxer. I know you too well and I'm not helping with your reports on this."

fox: "Cody you are NOT leaving them here take your kids and don't let me catch them here again." *he glared from Cody to thorn who was laughing at this all*

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

CORUSCANT GUARD + B99 MEMES!! Had a bunch of fun w these boys!!!

Anakin pissed off his wife and Fox Has Had It™. And then the boys learn NOT to steal Grizzer for pranks... 😂

Shots I redrew below!!:

Extracurricular Officer Training

independent_variables

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox & Clone Commander Thorn Characters: CC-1010 | Fox, Clone Commander Thorn (Star Wars), Grizzer the Massiff (Star Wars) Additional Tags: Theft, Bonding, THE START OF A BEAUTIFUL PARTNERSHIP, fox’s adventures in crime on coruscant, Breaking and Entering, space dogs, cops doing cop things. like stealing Summary:

He didn’t have to wait long. The even click-thud of Lieutenant Thorn’s stride emerged from the mess, just as the lieutenant himself passed the hall. Fox reached out and snagged his pauldron.

Thorn twitched violently and then whirled around, one hand dropping to his blaster but the other rising in a neat salute. “Commander! Hi! I mean hello! Um. Hello, sir.”

Hm. Thorn was getting used to him.

***

Fox enlists Thorn’s help with an errand.

—

This is a recent fic I’m posting for @starwarsalltypesoflove week long celebration! It’s a messy mix of like three different kinds of love that Fox is not happy to be feeling for his troops, lol.

Coruscant guard as bizarre t shirts

again, fanart welcome

I'ts over Thorn, You have crossed the line. NO MORE POST-ITS

Original Meme:

I don't know why im putting so much effort in these lmao ''But the best part of this plan is, no one can stop me''

Reblogs are super appreciated <3

Thorn being Thorn Redrawing memes to cure my depression 👌🏼 I love this duo <3 THE BOYSS <333 Reblogs are appreciated!!! :]

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?

I’m going down the Clone Wars amv rabbit hole please send help. Literally just clicked on a video that showed Commander Thorn in the thumbnail and we all know which scene it is :)

Clone Wars but the troopers have tik tok. The guards (Thorn) would totally do the a “I don’t want your money” to Fox let’s be honest.

Ya know You Found Me by The Fray. Yeah soo like that one line “Lying on the floor, surrounded surrounded.” Uhh yeah I’m just gonna drop this

Next Helmet ⛑ Commander Thorn 🥰

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.

I love the thought of grumpy x sunshine bromance with Fox and Thorn. Thorn being the sunshine character and Fox being the grumpy one.

Fox always seems annoyed whenThorn jokes around or gets on his nerves but he secretly likes it and doesn’t mind a little but of company.

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?

Fox: Is 8 a lot?

Thorn: It kinda depends. Credits? No. The number of cups of caf you drank since this morning? Yes!

bullying your brother

✨More Clones Brickheadz !✨

Since I acquired the Small Cody (40675), I found that there was an untapped mine. Why would they only make one ? Well. I don't have an answer to that, but I decided to take matters into my own one; so behold : 11 more. I went mostly for commanders here, but then I went a bit astray and so I added some captains to the mix.

In order, row by row :

Tukk (Not cannon but the colours are so beautiful)/Vaungh (died too soon-)/Rex (obviously)/Fordo (I did Rex, so I had to)

Gree/Doom/Thorn/Neyo

Bly/Cody/Fox/Wolffe

It was a really fun project, and I hope to do more of them in the future - maybe even phase 1s, some day~); supposedly not commanders because I did most of them (except Bacara, I know...The helmet was too tough).

And because I really like challenges, if you want to see another clone turned into one of these (Be it cannon or one of your ocs) feel free to send requests in my aksbox !)

Anyway this post is already far too long for anyone's dashboard, so closeups and details will be under the cut !

Let's start with the easy ones : Cody, Doom, Fox, Thorn

Obviously, Cody was easy, I just rebuilt the original one virtually - Nothing too hard. The printed pieces here are not the right ones, because Cody's are not available on STUDio yet, but the storm trooper ones were relatively similar, so I used these for most of these models. Of course, it means I'm lacking the sun bands, and a few other distinctive elements, but it works well enough for now.

Now, Doom is essentially a colour variation (minus a few antennas). I also used an old space piece, which has this big yellow arrow printed on it. I's not exactly what Doom has, but I feel like it's close enough for a first attempt.

Then, Fox is relatively similar to Doom, but with two DC-17s. I also moved the printed torso brick up to get that red line he has.

Thorn works in a similar way to Cody too, except I removed both accessories on the side of the helmet. I also added this tile with diagonal lines to figure the wings he has. One day I'll slap some real wings on there, but I haven't found the right image yet. I also gave him a Z-6, obviously. I really like it, so I might actually make that one physically, because the way it's build (with old binocular pieces) is pretty nice; although I doubt the pieces are available in black.

Moving on to two captains : Vaughn and Tukk !

Admittedly, not really that different either, except for one thing : I learnt to do custom prints now ! Yay ! Well, these are really basic : the blue line for Vaughn, and some trapezoids for Tukk's helmet (which are, indeed, not visible here - shame, I spent so long making these fit). The Ahsoka pattern was already in STUDio (because Ahsoka already has her own brickheadz, which I'll get my hands on someday~)

I must also add that having some cyan in this whole thing added some much needed colours in here, I'm grateful some people give their clones amazing colours (If somehow someone doesn't know who Tukk is, well just check High Ground Animation. Right now. It's really cool, trust me). Anyway.

As for design changes, I modified the faces slightly by adding 1x1 tiles, to allow for different colours variations on the face. It makes them look slightly blockier, but given the overall size of the head, it doesn't do much.

I also gave Vaughn a DC-15A. It's a bit messy, but it works out well enough. Past me forgot to render it, so here is a raw, in-software picture of it (from Fordo(s hand, but it's the same design for both) :

BARC helmets ? Wolffe, Fordo, Neyo

As I've been told, these look a bit wonky, and I'll admit its wasn't exactly easy, but in my defence, it's relatively hard to get such round shapes with bricks (lego cheated by adding the visor). Anyway, given that doing that with a printed piece was out of the question, I tried to replicate the filter's shape with actual bricks, and I used a printed piece which, technically, is Lando's moustache, but downward. I'd say it does the job relatively well.

I also added a rangefinder to Wolffe, which is a little big compared to everyone else's antennas, but It's still relatively to scale with the head itself. No custom prints for him (not sure where I would find the correct pattern images ?), but I've done it for Fordo and Neyo. Fordo obviously has his well deserved Jaig eyes (and who knew it would be that difficult to find a picture of that on internet ?), and Neyo has his symbol on the helmet, chest plate, and the shoulder not shown here.

The really tinkered ones : Gree, Bly, Rex :

Here, it was a matter of trials and errors to figure out just how to get the shapes right.

I actually started with Bly, by removing the previous visor and adding the macrobinoculars first, then I tried to shape the helmet around. Truth is, it doesn't make sense technically : the two separated parts of the helmet do not connected at all, if you remove the equipment. Luckily, no one has to know that.

Next is Gree. It took me some time to figure out how to properly get a round feel, but I feel like it's as good as I can make it like this. Colour-wise, it was surprisingly difficult to find how to balance the different shades of green, and equally hard was to figure out which silvery colour would render well in STUDio. The answer lied, as it always does, in Bionicle. Of course, none of these pieces exist in this colour, but it's not really my main problem (because none of the coloured printed pieces exist either).

Finally, Rex...He gave me some trouble, I have to admit. Firstly, the part-designing software decided to have some trouble with custom prints, which was problematic, because I simply couldn't do Rex without jaig eyes (and Fordo already had his). Then, I started with Gree's base and tried to go from there to fit Rex's custom helmet. I ended up using Boba Fett's printed visor piece for Rex, because these were all triangles. I also got rid of the printed chest piece and used some black plates to simulate the pouch he has; while also adding a a few more custom printed pieces for the arms and pauldron (barely visible, but they're here. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I don't see much other solutions than more and more custom prints, which isn't my goal, so it'll stay like that for now.

Anyway, that's way too much rambling for one post, so I'll just end by saying that next week I'll post an alt version of this whole build [here !], with some 'slight' colour alterations. Definitely nothing big.

My darling I've said this before but you deserve so many more likes, every time i read one of your fics im genuinely expecting it to have thousands of likes on it and it usually has like 20? If i could like every single one of your works 100 times i would :)

Okay but imagine Rex's reactions to the reader wearing his helmet. Like, he walks in and the readers like 🧍‍♀️ and he's like 🧍‍♀️. And then everyone around them is confused bc why is this even happening in the first place (maybe its a prank? Idk 👉👈)

Also i know i said Rex but if you want to include any others please do lol i would love to see your interpretation of this with others

<3

Ahhh you’re the absolute sweetest—thank you so much for the kind words, seriously!! I couldn’t resist this prompt , so I went ahead and did the whole command batch’s reactions too.

⸻

CAPTAIN REX

He’d just finished a debrief. He was tired, armor scuffed, and brain fogged from a long string of missions. All he wanted was to collect his helmet and find a quiet place to decompress.

Instead, he opened the door to the barracks and found you standing in the middle of the room.

Wearing his helmet.

You weren’t doing anything. Just standing there, arms at your sides, posture too stiff, visor pointed directly at the door like you’d been caught red-handed.

Rex froze mid-step. His eyes flicked to your body, then to the helmet, then back again. The room was dead silent.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

It felt like some kind of unspoken standoff.

When he finally found his voice, it came out neutral but clipped. “Is there a reason you’re wearing my helmet?”

You reached up and lifted it just slightly off your head, enough to reveal your eyes. “I was trying to understand what it’s like… carrying all this responsibility. All the weight. I figured the helmet was part of it.”

Rex blinked.

He should have been annoyed. His helmet was an extension of his identity, not something he usually let anyone touch, let alone wear. But something in your voice—sincere, tinged with dry humor—softened the moment.

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s heavier than it looks.”

You slid the helmet off entirely and held it to your chest. “Yeah. I didn’t expect that.”

Rex crossed the room and took it from your hands, eyes lingering on your face a moment longer than necessary. “You can ask next time. I might still say no, but… you can ask.”

You gave him a faint smile. “Noted, Captain.”

Later, Rex would sit on the edge of his bunk, polishing the helmet with extra care, thinking about the way you’d stood there. How serious you’d looked. And how much more complicated everything felt now.

⸻

COMMANDER CODY

Cody wasn’t used to surprises. He didn’t like them.

So when he walked into the clone officer quarters and found you perched on his bunk—wearing his helmet and staring at the floor like some kind of haunted statue—his brain stalled for a moment.

You didn’t look up.

You didn’t say a word.

Cody stood in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking—likely the same thing you were: how did this situation even come to exist?

Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

You slowly lifted your head. “No. I just… wanted to know what it was like. To be you.”

He arched an eyebrow. “By wearing my helmet?”

You lifted it off, your hair a little mussed from the fit. “It felt… commanding. Intimidating. Also slightly claustrophobic.”

Cody crossed the room, took the helmet from your hands, and inspected it like you might’ve done something to compromise its integrity. “That’s about accurate.”

You stood. “Did I at least look cool?”

Cody gave a short, quiet laugh, the kind that rarely made it past his lips. “You looked like you were trying very hard to be me. But points for effort.”

He turned to go, helmet under one arm. As he walked out, he muttered, “Don’t tell Kenobi.”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

⸻

COMMANDER FOX

Fox was already in a foul mood. The Senate hearings had run late. A group of Senators had argued about appropriations for nearly three hours. The bureaucrats hadn’t approved the funding he needed, and to make things worse, someone had tried to hand him a fruit basket on the way out.

He just wanted to grab his datapad and leave.

Instead, he stepped into his office and stopped cold.

You were behind his desk, arms folded. His helmet was on your head, slightly crooked from the weight.

Fox did not say anything.

You didn’t, either.

You watched each other like two predators in a silent, high-stakes standoff.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Is this a joke?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then explain.”

You pulled the helmet off and set it gently on the desk. “I wanted to see if it felt as heavy as it looks. Thought maybe I’d understand what it’s like… to be you.”

Fox blinked. His voice dropped lower. “That helmet’s been in more battles than most Senators have meetings.”

You met his gaze, dead serious. “Exactly. That’s why I put it on.”

He walked over and took the helmet in both hands. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just stood there, the edge of the desk between you, his gloved fingers tracing a scratch across the paint.

“You look good in red,” he said at last, so quietly you barely caught it.

Then he was gone.

You stood alone, trying not to think too hard about the heat blooming in your chest.

⸻

COMMANDER WOLFFE

You’d made the mistake of trying it out in the open—when Wolffe was still around.

You thought he was in a meeting. He wasn’t.

The moment he stepped into the hallway and saw you marching in a slow circle, wearing his helmet and muttering, “I don’t trust anyone. Not even my own shadow. Jedi are the worst,” it was already too late to escape.

You froze mid-step when you noticed him watching you.

Wolffe didn’t say a word.

You pivoted awkwardly. “I was… doing a character study.”

“You were mocking me.”

“Not entirely.”

He crossed his arms, expression hard, but his voice was lighter than you expected. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You pulled the helmet off. “It’s a compliment. You’ve got presence.”

Wolffe walked forward, took the helmet, and gave you a look somewhere between amused and exasperated. “You forgot the part where I sigh and glare at everything in sight.”

You nodded, solemn. “Next time, I’ll prepare better.”

He rolled his eyes, turned to leave, and muttered over his shoulder, “Next time, do it where I can’t see you.”

But he was smiling.

⸻

COMMANDER BLY

You were crouched on the floor of the gunship hangar when Bly found you.

You hadn’t meant for him to catch you. It was supposed to be a private moment—a little playful impersonation you were going to spring on him later.

But there you were, wearing his helmet, whispering dramatically into the echoing space of the hangar, “General Secura, I would die for you. I would let the whole world burn if you asked.”

You turned and saw him standing behind you.

There was no saving this.

“Hi,” you said, voice muffled behind the helmet.

Bly stared. “What… exactly are you doing?”

You straightened, taking off the helmet. “I was… immersing myself in your worldview. For empathy purposes.”

He squinted. “You were crawling around whispering to yourself in my voice.”

You nodded. “It’s called method acting.”

Bly took the helmet from you like it was fragile. “Next time, try asking.”

“Would you have let me?”

He paused. “…Probably not.”

“Then I regret nothing.”

Bly looked at the helmet, then at you. His expression was unreadable—but his voice was warmer when he said, “Try not to let General Secura catch you doing that. Or she will ask questions.”

⸻

COMMANDER THORN

You were caught mid-spin, dramatically turning to aim Thorn’s DC-17 blaster at an imaginary threat.

His helmet covered your face, tilted slightly sideways from the weight. You didn’t realize he’d walked into the room until you heard the low, unimpressed voice behind you.

“Unless you’re planning to fight off an uprising by yourself, I’d recommend not touching my gear.”

You froze.

Lowered the blaster.

Removed the helmet slowly.

“…Hi.”

Thorn’s arms were crossed, and though his tone was flat, his eyes glittered with amusement. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I figured you’d say no.”

“I would’ve. But at least I wouldn’t have walked in on… whatever that was.”

You held up the helmet like an offering. “Do I at least get points for form?”

Thorn stepped forward, plucked the helmet from your hands, and gave you a once-over that lingered slightly too long. “You’re lucky I like chaos.”

And then he walked off, still shaking his head, muttering, “Force help me, they’re getting bolder.”

⸻

COMMANDER NEYO

You weren’t even doing anything dramatic this time. Just sitting on a crate in the hangar bay, wearing Commander Neyo’s helmet with a calmness that probably made it weirder.

He entered mid-conversation with a deck officer and paused mid-sentence when he saw you.

Neyo’s reputation was infamous—no-nonsense, silent, rarely seen without his helmet. So when you tried it on just to see what the fuss was about, you didn’t expect him to walk in.

Now he was staring at you.

Expressionless.

Silent.

Unmoving.

You slowly lifted the helmet off. “Commander.”

“Where did you find it?”

“…In your locker.”

He blinked once. “You broke into my locker?”

“…Hypothetically.”

The deck officer excused himself quickly.

Neyo walked over, took the helmet without saying a word, and stared down at you for a long moment. Then, just as you were starting to sweat—

“I hope you didn’t try the voice modulator. It’s calibrated to my pitch.”

You blinked. “…So you’re not mad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Then he walked away.

You didn’t know if you were about to get reported or flirted with. And somehow, that was very Neyo.

⸻

COMMANDER GREE

You’d barely slipped the helmet on when Gree stepped into the staging area, datapad in hand, ready to give a mission briefing.

He stopped. His gaze snapped up.

You, standing in the center of the room in his jungle-green helmet, stared back at him like a guilty cadet.

There was a long pause.

“Is that… my helmet?” he asked, like he needed verbal confirmation of what his eyes were clearly seeing.

You nodded slowly. “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”

He tilted his head. “You know it’s loaded with recon tech calibrated to my ocular patterns?”

“…No.”

“Technically, that means it could backfire and scramble your brain if you activated it.”

“…I didn’t touch any buttons.”

Gree blinked, then grinned. “Good. I’d hate to scrape you off the floor. Again.”

You took the helmet off and passed it back. “That’s… oddly sweet.”

Gree shrugged. “Only because it’s you.”

The next day, he left a field helmet—not his own—on your bunk with a sticky note: “Test this one. Lower risk of neural frying.”

⸻

COMMANDER BACARA

You’d always known Bacara was a little intense.

So maybe wearing his helmet was a bad idea.

You didn’t expect him to walk into the armory while you were trying it on. You especially didn’t expect him to freeze mid-stride and go completely still—like a wolf spotting prey.

“Take it off,” he said, voice sharp.

You complied immediately.

“I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” you added quickly, holding it out with both hands. “Just curious.”

He took it from you in silence. His expression didn’t change. But his hands moved carefully, almost reverently.

“That helmet’s been through Geonosis,” he said quietly. “Through mud and fire. My brothers died wearing helmets just like it.”

You swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

He looked up. “I know. Just… don’t try it again. Not without asking.”

You gave a small nod. “I won’t.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “You did look decent in it, though.”

He left before you could respond.

⸻

COMMANDER DOOM

You’d slipped Doom’s helmet on while helping reorganize the command tent. He wasn’t around—or so you thought.

You were mid-sentence in a very bad impression of his voice when you heard someone behind you.

“Is that how I sound to you?”

You turned, startled, and found Doom leaning against the tent flap with one brow raised.

You straightened awkwardly. “I was, uh, trying to get into your mindset.”

He snorted. “My mindset?”

“You know. Calm. Steady. Smiling in the face of doom—ironically.”

He walked over, arms folded, and tilted his head as you pulled the helmet off. “Did it work?”

“I think I’ve achieved inner peace.”

He chuckled. “Keep the helmet. It suits you.”

You stared.

“I’m joking,” he added, already walking away.

You weren’t so sure.

⸻

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.12

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

Vos had eventually dozed off on the couch after recounting his entire day in painstaking detail, mid-rant about Kenobi’s latest sarcastic remark. GH-9 had draped a throw blanket over him like a passive-aggressive truce, muttering about “freeloading Force-wielders,” while R7 beeped threats softly from across the room.

The senator stood by the kitchen sink, sipping water and staring out into the hazy city night. The lights of Coruscant stretched infinitely, a galaxy unto itself—one that never paused, even when she desperately needed to.

And then—three knocks.

Soft, deliberate. From the main door this time.

She glanced at the droids. R7, without being asked, wheeled over to peek at the hallway cam.

The screen lit up.

Fox.

Alone. No helmet. No men.

She didn’t hesitate.

She opened the door, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. His eyes were tired, rimmed with something unreadable. Not quite regret. Not quite resolve.

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, likely clocking Vos asleep on the couch.

“I won’t stay long.”

“You can,” she said quietly, stepping aside.

Fox entered like a man walking into enemy territory—not with fear, but with precision. Everything about him was still: his breath, his hands, the way his gaze lingered on her before dropping to the floor.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” he said. “After everything.”

“You always think too much before doing what you want.”

He gave a dry, soft laugh. “Maybe.”

The room was dim, her empty wineglass still on the table, the half-eaten leftovers now covered by GH’s impeccable sense of order. R7 retreated into the shadows. GH quietly powered down in the corner, muttering, “If I hear one bedspring creak, I’m deleting myself.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” she said, voice low.

Fox’s jaw twitched.

He crossed the space between them in two quiet steps. Her hands found his shoulders—tension in the muscle, coiled like a spring. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath warm.

“Tell me to leave,” he said hoarsely. “And I will.”

“I don’t want you to.”

She kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate—it was slow, sure, deliberate. The kind of kiss that came after months of missteps, guarded words, and chances nearly lost. His hands cupped her jaw as if anchoring himself. Her fingers found the hem of his blacks, tugging him gently forward.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, the city behind them still humming.

Clothes were shed without rush—just the gradual unveiling of want. Of unspoken truths. Of the weight they both carried and the tiny moment they let themselves set it down.

He was careful. Reverent. She was unapologetically sure of him.

And when it was over, when they were curled together in the dark, his hand found hers beneath the covers. A breath passed. A wordless promise lingered in the space between heartbeats.

For once, neither of them said a thing.

There was no need.

⸻

Soft morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting long golden stripes across the bed and the bodies tangled beneath the sheets.

Fox stirred first—slow, careful. His arm was wrapped around her waist, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, breathing even and warm against his skin. For a man who was always half-tense, half-suspicious, he had let himself fully relax—for once.

He looked down at her, brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, and exhaled quietly.

Safe.

Here, in this impossible little pocket of stillness, he felt safe.

She shifted slightly, nuzzling into him, and he tightened his hold instinctively.

“You’re still here,” she murmured, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Didn’t want to leave,” he replied, just above a whisper. “Didn’t want this to be just once.”

“It won’t be,” she said, fingers tracing a lazy line across his chest. “Unless you snore. That’s a dealbreaker.”

He smirked. “You snore.”

“Lies.”

There was a loud clatter from the main living area, followed by GH-9’s distinctly judgmental voice.

“He stayed the whole night. I must say, I didn’t expect the Commander to be the clingy one. And here I was rooting for Thorn’s rebound arc.”

“GH,” the senator groaned, pressing her face into Fox’s chest. “Why did I give you a voice box again?”

“Because without him, you’d have no one to judge your choices properly.”

More noise. A loud thump. R7’s panicked, angry beeping echoed into the bedroom.

Fox lifted his head. “Is someone—?”

“Vos,” she sighed.

A pause. “Of course.”

R7 let out a sharp screech followed by the sound of something sparking.

From the living room, Vos yelled “You psychotic bin of bolts! That nearly hit my hair!”

More angry beeps.

“You can’t just light me on fire!”

Fox sat up as GH-9 came into the bedroom and calmly announced, “Vos has been warned. R7 has logged multiple offenses. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been tased already.”

Fox gave her a look. “Do I want to know what R7’s made of?”

“No,” she said immediately.

Outside the bedroom door, Quinlan’s voice carried “I just came to say good morning! And maybe… ask how many rounds you two—OKAY I’M GOING.”

A snap of static and the sound of flailing robes later, Vos presumably ran for his life, with R7 in hot pursuit.

Fox laid back down slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Why is your life like this?”

She grinned into the pillow. “Keeps me young.”

He glanced at her. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she whispered, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “Now. Lie back down, Commander. We’re pretending the galaxy doesn’t exist for five more minutes.”

Outside, GH’s voice rang again.

“I’ll make caf. And breakfast. For two.”

⸻

“Alright,” Stone said, setting down his tray in the mess with a heavy clunk, “am I the only one who noticed Fox didn’t come back to the barracks last night?”

Thire raised a brow and sat beside him. “You’re not. His bunk hasn’t been touched. Hound, anything on your end?”

Hound glanced up from feeding Grizzer bits of smoked meat under the table. “He left with us last night, remember? Said he was heading home. Then poof. No helmet, no comms. Nothing.”

Stone leaned in, frowning. “That man is never late. And definitely never unaccounted for.”

“Unless…” Thire started, a sly grin growing. “He wasn’t alone.”

All three went silent for a second.

Then:

“Oh no.”

“Oh stars.”

“Oh hells.”

Their synchronized realisation was only made worse when Thorn walked by, paused mid-step, and slowly turned back to face them.

“What are you lot whispering about?” he asked, tone suspiciously flat.

Thire cleared his throat. “Just… wondering where Fox was last night.”

“Why?”

“Because no one’s seen him. Didn’t report in. Didn’t come home.”

Stone added carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to know where he was, would you?”

Thorn didn’t answer. He stared. And then, very slowly, that seed of doubt began to unfurl in his chest like a poison bloom.

He hadn’t seen her since the senator came back from her homeworld. And Fox had been… twitchy. Avoidant.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t think he was with—?”

“Morning, gentlemen!”

Quinlan Vos breezed in, still half-draped in his robe, hair tousled like he hadn’t slept a minute—and somehow smug as ever.

He dropped into a seat, reached for a mug of caf, and grinned. “You are not going to believe what I heard last night.”

Thire narrowed his eyes. “From where?”

Vos took a long sip of caf, then tapped his temple. “Senator’s couch. You’d be surprised how little soundproofing those walls have.”

There was a long, awful pause.

“You slept on her couch?” Stone asked, appalled.

Vos wiggled his fingers. “Slept is a strong word. Meditated with dramatic flair, more like. Anyway—Fox dropped by around midnight. Stayed the night. Definitely didn’t leave until early morning. I heard… things.” He waggled his brows.

Thorn’s blood went cold.

“You’re saying they—?”

“I’m saying,” Vos interrupted with a smirk, “there was some very rhythmic furniture movement, and I was not going to interrupt round two. Or was it three?”

Hound groaned. “Oh maker.”

Thire blinked. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Grizzer barked once, unhelpfully.

And Thorn—he just stood there. Stiff. Quiet. Jaw clenched so hard it ached.

Vos finally noticed. “Oh. Thorn. You okay, buddy?”

The commander turned and left without a word.

Vos blinked. “Was it something I said?”

Stone and Thire glared.

Hound just muttered, “You’re the worst, Vos.”

Vos grinned. “I try.”

Thorn didn’t remember much of the walk out of the mess hall.

His boots hit the corridor floor harder than necessary, hands clenched into fists at his sides. It felt like pressure was building in his chest—hot, dense, and impossible to ignore. Every step echoed like a heartbeat in his ears, and not a single one of those karking words from Vos would stop replaying.

Rhythmic furniture movement.

Round two. Or was it three?

He stopped in the hallway outside the barracks and pressed both hands against the durasteel wall, breathing hard through his nose.

It shouldn’t matter.

She wasn’t his.

But he’d had her. At least for a night. One goddamn night where he’d seen her smile against the morning sun, tangled in the sheets with him. Where it felt like something peaceful and warm was possible.

And Fox—

Fox always took everything in stride. Cold, quiet, controlled Fox. Until suddenly, he didn’t. Until he showed up where he wasn’t expected and stayed the night.

Thorn’s hand slammed into the wall with a metallic clang. A few clones walking past glanced at him but didn’t dare speak. Not with the look on his face.

He hadn’t thought he’d be jealous of Fox. Not him. Not the cold, haunted commander who held himself so far back from everyone that even his own brothers walked on eggshells around him. But now, all Thorn could picture was her mouth on Fox’s, her body against his, those sharp eyes going soft the way they had only once before—when she looked at Thorn.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye socket, trying to force the thoughts away.

Maybe it was just physical. A mistake. A moment. Maybe Fox wouldn’t even mention it again.

But deep down, Thorn knew.

Fox didn’t do casual. Fox didn’t indulge unless he meant something by it. And the way he’d been looking at her lately… the way he’d softened.

Thorn turned abruptly and headed toward the training wing. He needed to hit something. Sparring droids, punching bags, stone walls—anything.

He couldn’t walk this off. Not this time.

He couldn’t stand the idea of losing her.

Not to him.

⸻

The sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting the Senate District in a soft golden glow. It was quiet—eerily so, for Coruscant—and for once, she welcomed the stillness.

She was sitting on her balcony, a cup of tea long forgotten beside her. R7 beeped quietly from the corner, then rolled back inside, sensing her need to be alone.

The knock came anyway.

She didn’t even look. “Door’s open.”

It hissed open a second later, and Thorn stood there in full red armor, helmet under one arm, his hair mussed, his expression unreadable.

She looked up at him slowly. “I figured you’d be storming through the training halls.”

“I did.” His voice was lower than usual. “Didn’t help.”

She gave him a soft, bitter smile. “Then I suppose I’ll be your next attempt at relief.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

There was a beat of silence. The tension between them felt like it had a pulse of its own.

She stood, arms folding across her chest. “I never lied to you, Thorn.”

“I know.”

“I told you I couldn’t choose. That I cared about you both.” Her voice cracked a little at the edges, raw with the weight of it. “That hasn’t changed.”

“I didn’t come here to demand anything,” he said quietly. “I just… I needed to see you. I needed to know if it meant something. What happened between us. Or if I was just—”

“You weren’t just anything.” Her eyes locked with his. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t do that to me.”

He took a step closer. “Then what am I?”

She hesitated. “You’re someone I care about. Someone I trusted with more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care for him, too. This isn’t… easy.”

He closed the last bit of distance, standing just inches away now. “I’m not asking for easy. I never wanted perfect. Just something real.”

Her lips parted, a shaky breath escaping her. “Thorn…”

And then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t patient. It was desperate, almost painful—like if he didn’t kiss her now, if he didn’t feel her, he’d fall apart entirely.

She let him.

For a few suspended seconds, she let herself fall into the gravity of him—the anger, the confusion, the ache of not being enough and wanting too much. Her fingers curled into his armor, his hands gripping her waist like she was the last solid thing in the galaxy.

But she pulled back first.

His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven.

“I can’t promise you anything,” she whispered, barely able to speak past the emotion in her throat.

“I’m not asking for a promise,” he murmured. “Just don’t shut me out.”

She nodded, slowly. “I won’t.”

Neither of them moved for a while. The city buzzed far beneath them, but up here, they were just two people—trying to make sense of a storm neither had control over.

⸻

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the Coruscant skyline outside and the soft rustling of sheets as Thorn shifted beside her. She was curled against him, her fingers tracing the edge of his armor, the weight of his body warm and familiar next to hers.

For the moment, the chaos of the galaxy seemed miles away. The Senate, the battles, the confusion with Fox, it all felt distant. All that remained was the steady rhythm of Thorn’s breath and the warmth of his presence.

She sighed, not wanting to break the silence. But she had to.

“Where will you go?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, the words fragile as they left her lips.

Thorn’s hand found hers, gently squeezing. “Padmé’s mission. There’s a squad of us assigned to protect her, make sure nothing goes wrong while she’s there.” His voice was casual, like this was just another assignment, another day in the life of a soldier.

But she could hear the edge in his tone, the unspoken weight of what it meant. She couldn’t help but feel a tightness in her chest.

“You’re going with her?” Her voice trembled slightly.

He nodded. “I’ll be with her, watching over her and the others. No one will get through me.”

But she knew the truth. The reality of war was far darker than the comfort of his words.

A quiet moment passed between them, the distance between their hearts widening with the inevitable separation.

She turned her face to the side to look at him, her fingers grazing his jaw. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” he said, but there was a sadness behind his smile, a knowing that neither of them could ignore.

Her stomach churned. She didn’t want him to leave. She didn’t want to watch him walk away, knowing how fragile life was in the galaxy they lived in.

“I wish I could go with you,” she murmured. “Not as a senator… just as me. I want to be by your side, Thorn.”

His fingers brushed her cheek, a tenderness in his touch that betrayed the soldier he was. “I know. I wish you could, too. But I can’t ask you to leave your duties.”

There it was—the line between them. The weight of who she was and what she had to do, and the soldier who had nothing but his duty to give.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promised, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of fear, of uncertainty—that unsettled her.

He was trying to reassure her, but she could feel it in her gut. She didn’t want to let him go. Not like this. Not with war still raging, not knowing what the future would hold.

But what could she do? She couldn’t keep him with her. And as much as she hated to admit it, she knew she couldn’t stand in the way of his duty either.

She nodded, her lips trembling as she kissed him again, softer this time. “Come back to me, Thorn. Promise me.”

He kissed her back, deeply, holding her close as if trying to make the moment last forever.

“I promise. I’ll come back to you. I’ll always come back.”

You lay there for a while longer, not speaking, just holding onto each other as the time ticked away. The feeling of his heartbeat beneath her fingers, the warmth of his body next to hers, was the only thing that anchored her to this fleeting moment of peace.

⸻

The next morning, the air felt heavy. Thorn, dressed in his full armor, stood by the door. His helmet sat at his side, and for once, the mask didn’t seem like a symbol of his strength. It seemed like a weight.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said quietly, looking at her one last time before the mission.

The time they had spent together—intimate, raw, fleeting—had been enough to make him hesitate. He wanted to hold her longer. To delay the mission, to stay here in the quiet with her for just a few more hours. But he couldn’t. Duty called, as it always did.

She nodded, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

She could feel her heart beating erratically. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, the unspoken fear gnawing at her insides.

She watched him walk down the hallway, her heart heavy with a sense of dread that she couldn’t shake. And as the door closed behind him, she tried to push the worry aside. She had to. For his sake.

The sound of the door sealing shut behind him echoed through the apartment. It was the sound of finality.

And as Thorn left her behind, she had no idea that this goodbye might be the last time she’d see him alive.

⸻

The mission was supposed to be routine. Thorn and his squad were assigned to protect Padmé, but as they soon discovered, nothing in the War ever went according to plan.

In the chaos, Thorn found himself surrounded, his blaster raised, a fierce determination in his eyes. But even the most skilled of soldiers could only hold out for so long.

⸻

Back on Coruscant, the days dragged on. The Senate halls were filled with the usual bustle, but the senator couldn’t shake the feeling of something missing. Thorn’s absence weighed on her.

She was in her office, sorting through reports and data pads that had piled up during her absence. The windows were open, letting in the soft glow of Coruscant’s afternoon sun, though it offered little warmth.

R7 chirped as he rolled past, dragging a half-toppled stack of flimsiplast behind him like a stubborn child refusing to clean up. GH-9 muttered something sarcastic in binary about the senator’s inability to delegate.

She was halfway through dictating a speech when the door chimed.

“Come in,” she called without looking up.

The door opened. She didn’t expect to look up and see Fox standing there.

The moment she saw his face, she knew.

He wasn’t in full armor. No helmet, no blaster. Just the weight of something unspeakable dragging his shoulders low. His eyes—those always-sharp, unreadable eyes—were glassy.

“Senator,” he said softly, almost like he wished he didn’t have to speak at all.

Her heart dropped.

“What is it?” she asked, the datapad slipping from her hands, forgotten on the desk.

Fox stepped inside and the door closed behind him with a quiet hiss.

“It’s Thorn.”

The words struck like a punch to the chest. She froze. Her stomach twisted.

“No.”

“He was escorting Senator Amidala They were ambushed. He held the line.” Fox’s voice was steady, trained. But beneath it, something trembled. “He fought like hell.”

Her knees buckled, and she sat down hard in her chair, as if the air had been knocked out of her.

“He didn’t—he didn’t make it,” Fox finished, the words hanging in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Silence.

R7 rolled up beside her, quietly for once, and GH-9 hovered in the background, hands twitching nervously.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. Just sat there with her hands clenched in her lap, her nails biting into her palms. She stared at the wall, eyes unfocused.

“I shouldn’t have let him go alone.”

Fox took a step closer, voice low. “There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

She looked up at him sharply, and for a brief moment, he saw all of it—the love, the guilt, the devastation.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said gently. “But I know he wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Her jaw trembled. “He promised me. He said he’d come back.”

Fox moved then, silent but certain. He knelt beside her chair, placing one gloved hand over hers. It was the first time she’d seen him like this—unguarded, vulnerable.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you,” he admitted. “But I knew… it had to be me.”

She looked at him, truly looked. And something in her cracked.

Tears welled up and finally fell. Not loud, not dramatic. Just quiet, helpless grief.

Fox stayed where he was, grounding her with his hand, offering nothing but his presence and the unspoken ache of his own loss. Thorn had been one of them—his brother, his friend. And now, just another ghost in the long line behind them.

“I loved him,” she said hoarsely, the words torn from her chest. “And I never got to tell him.”

Fox nodded, his thumb brushing gently over her fingers. “He knew.”

They sat there like that for a long time. No titles, no ranks, no roles—just two people mourning a man who had mattered more than words could ever say.

⸻

It was late.

The city outside her window was alive with light, but her apartment was dark, save for the soft hum of R7 recharging in the corner and the occasional flicker of Coruscant speeders casting pale shadows across the room.

She stood at the balcony, robe drawn tight around her, fingers curled around a mug of untouched caf long since gone cold. The wind carried faint echoes of the night—traffic, laughter, the mechanical heartbeat of a world that never paused.

Behind her, she heard the soft hiss of her door sliding open.

She didn’t turn.

“I didn’t lock it, did I?” she murmured, her voice distant.

“No.” Fox’s voice was quiet, steady as ever, but softer somehow. “Didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, watching nothing, letting the silence stretch between them like a fragile thread.

“I told you I couldn’t choose,” she said at last, her voice breaking around the edges. “Between you and him. I—I cared too much for you both.”

Fox stepped closer, but didn’t touch her.

“I know.”

Her throat tightened, and she finally turned to face him. His helmet was tucked under one arm, and without it, he looked tired. Hollowed out. But there was a warmth in his gaze, something real—something she wasn’t sure how to accept right now.

“The galaxy chose for me,” she whispered, bitterness thick on her tongue. “And it was cruel.”

Fox nodded once, eyes lowering. “It always is.”

They stood there in silence again. The wind picked up, brushing her hair into her face. She closed her eyes.

“He died protecting someone else,” she said. “Of course he did.”

“That’s who he was.”

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Neither did Fox.

But Fox didn’t say it. He only looked at her with a quiet pain that mirrored her own.

After a while, she moved, just enough to stand beside him instead of across from him. Their shoulders nearly touched. And for the first time since the news had broken her in two, she let herself lean—just slightly—against him.

Fox didn’t move. Didn’t startle. He simply stayed.

The two of them stood there, side by side, in a moment that felt suspended in time. No war. No orders. No decisions to make.

Just grief. Just memory. Just a little peace, wrapped in shared silence and what could have been.

In the days that followed Thorn’s death, something shifted between her and Fox—but it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was in the small things.

He didn’t knock anymore.

She didn’t ask him to leave.

He never asked if he could stay, and she never told him no. When she broke into tears mid-sentence in a meeting with Bail and Mon, she felt Fox’s gloved hand rest lightly on her back—quiet, grounding, unspoken. When she returned to her apartment after long hours in the Senate, he was often already there, helmet on the table, sitting silently with R7 humming nearby and GH-9 making snide remarks about his choice in boots.

Their intimacy wasn’t the same as it once was. It wasn’t born of flirtation, or the tension of forbidden glances. It was quiet. Fragile. Real.

She didn’t laugh as much anymore, and Fox didn’t try to make her. But when she smiled—those rare, slow, exhausted smiles—he was always looking.

One night, weeks later, she woke to find herself tangled in her sheets, her heart racing from a dream she couldn’t remember. The bed beside her was empty, but she heard the sound of movement from the other room. When she padded out, she found him on the balcony, just like she had been that night.

He didn’t notice her at first. He was staring out at the city, the lights reflected in the faint lines beneath his eyes.

“I keep thinking about what he’d say if he saw us now,” she said quietly.

Fox didn’t flinch. “He’d be pissed.”

That got a breath of a laugh from her. “Yeah. He would.”

She stepped beside him, this time without hesitation. He looked at her—not with guilt or doubt, but something gentler.

“I’m not trying to take his place,” Fox said. “I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I’m here. And I care about you.”

She nodded, voice soft. “And I care about you.”

The silence between them wasn’t heavy anymore. It was something else now. Shared understanding. Mutual grief. A kind of bond forged not through heat or fire, but through the slow, enduring ache of loss.

She reached for his hand, and this time, he took it.

⸻

It had been months—long, heavy months since the galaxy fell into silence.

The war had ended, but the peace that followed felt like a lie whispered in a storm. The Republic was no more. The Jedi were gone. The Senate now served an Emperor.

And Fox… was still hers.

Somehow, in the ruins of everything, they had survived—together. Their love had grown not with grand gestures or declarations, but in quiet mornings and guarded nights. The droids still bickered. The city still roared. But in their home, they found a rhythm.

She had feared he’d be swept away by the tides of this new Empire. Feared that one day he wouldn’t come back. And that fear… never quite left her.

It settled in her bones like frost.

That morning, she sat on the edge of their bed, dressing in silence. Fox stood near the window, fastening his chest plate, his helmet cradled beneath his arm. The early Coruscant light bathed them both in a pale hue, sterile and cold.

He was going to the Jedi Temple.

“Why you?” she asked softly, not for the first time.

“Because the Emperor trusts me,” he said. It wasn’t pride—it was resignation. “And because I follow orders.”

She swallowed. “You followed orders during the war too. And look where we are now.”

He turned to face her, his expression unreadable, as always. But then he stepped forward, kneeling slightly in front of her. He took her hands in his, calloused fingers brushing against hers.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said quietly. “I always come back.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of what’s left of you when you do.”

He didn’t answer—not right away. Instead, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the silence stretching between them like a wire ready to snap.

“You saved what was left of me once,” he murmured. “Whatever happens in that temple… I’ll still be him. I’ll still be yours.”

She nodded, eyes burning. “You’d better be.”

He kissed her, slow and deep, and for a moment the galaxy outside didn’t exist. No Empire. No purge. Just them. Just love, worn but unyielding.

Then, without another word, he picked up his helmet, straightened, and walked out the door.

She stood alone, the echo of his footsteps retreating down the hall.

And for the first time in weeks, the senator who had survived the war—who had outlived Thorn, Padmé, and a thousand dreams—sat in silence and prayed.

⸻

The senator sat in the same chair by the window, her fingers wrapped around a cup of now-cold tea.

The sun had long risen. She hadn’t moved.

It had been hours since Fox left for the Jedi Temple. She had done this before—waited for him to come home, waited for news, waited for the sound of armored boots in the hallway followed by that quiet, familiar knock.

But this time, it never came.

Instead, a Senate aide delivered the news. Cold. Efficient. Detached.

Commander Fox is dead.

Her world stopped spinning.

She hadn’t cried. Not at first. Just sat there. Staring. Breathing through the tremor that clawed its way up her throat. She waited for someone to say it was a mistake. That the report had been wrong. That he’d walk through the door like he always did, maybe with a bruise or a weary joke.

But he didn’t.

GH-9 paced the floor, helpless for once. R7 sat by the door, unmoving, eerily quiet—no beeps, no complaints. Just stillness.

“He forgot,” she whispered at last, her voice dry and cracking.

GH-9 paused, turning his photoreceptors to her. “Pardon, senator?”

“He forgot to tell them… about Vader. He didn’t warn his men. He walked in blind, trusting too much. He…” She laughed, a dry, heartbroken sound. “Fox. He followed the rules. Right to the end.”

She folded in on herself, pressing her forehead to her knees. Her voice came out muffled, trembling. “He left me too.”

No one tried to tell her it would be okay. Not this time. Even the droids stayed silent.

She had lost Thorn to the war. Padmé to politics and truth. The Jedi to treason and betrayal.

And now Fox.

The man who had once been all steel and restraint, who had learned to laugh again in her arms, who held her when the galaxy grew too loud, who said he’d come back… and meant it.

He meant it.

But even Fox couldn’t survive this new galaxy.

Hours passed.

She lay down on the bed, curling into the spot where he used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like him—warm leather, dust, and something sharp and clean like the wind before rain.

Her hand found his pillow and clutched it to her chest.

And finally—finally—she cried.

⸻

News of Fox’s death reached her like an echo—distant, half-believed, but devastating all the same. He was just gone. No funeral. No body. No honors. Only silence.

She tried to go back to her life. Attending hollow Senate sessions filled with sycophants and fear. Sitting in on Imperial briefings delivered with too much steel and too little soul. Every corridor she walked felt colder. Every face around her wore a mask.

He had died protecting that machine. And now, it turned as if he’d never existed.

She grieved in private. She didn’t scream. She didn’t fall apart. She simply… withdrew. Fox had once told her that the Empire’s greatest weapon wasn’t force—it was apathy. It made people stop feeling. She remembered that.

But she wouldn’t stop feeling.

So when survivors of distant systems quietly sought her out… she listened.

When a child refugee from Garel slipped her a hand-drawn map of a new labor camp… she didn’t throw it away.

When a clone deserter arrived at her estate with wounds on his back and no name, she gave him food. And a place to rest.

It was only help, she told herself.

But helping turned into organizing. Organizing turned into funding. Funding turned into sabotage. Quietly. Carefully. No grand speeches. No banners. No cause, not officially. Just steps. One after another.

She still spoke in the Senate, but her voice was quieter now. Calculated. She didn’t argue. She watched. Noticed who kept their heads down and who looked over their shoulders. Who clenched their fists beneath the table.

And then she began connecting them.

They weren’t a rebellion. Not yet.

They were just people who remembered.

⸻

*time skip*

The banners were gone.

Where once the towering buildings of Coruscant bore the stark emblem of the Empire, now they flew the soft golds and blues of the New Republic. It had taken years. Blood, betrayal, sacrifice. But the machine had been broken.

She stood on a balcony overlooking the Senate Plaza, the same one where she’d once greeted Padmé, where she’d once stood beside Thorn, where Fox had kissed her in the early light of a safer time.

Everything was quieter now.

Not because there wasn’t work to do—there was always work—but because the fear had lifted. People laughed in the streets again.

Her hair was streaked with grey now, skin lined with years that had not always been kind. But her eyes… they were still sharp, still tired, still watching.

She didn’t hold a seat in the new Senate. She had turned it down. She said she’d done her time, spoken enough, lost too much. The new leaders were young, hopeful, idealistic. She didn’t want to shape them. She just wanted them to do better.

Some called her a war hero. Others, a relic. A few, a ghost.

She was all of them. And none.

On quiet mornings, she would walk the Senate gardens. GH-9 still chattered beside her. R7 wheeled along just ahead, ever feisty, ever suspicious, always scanning for threats that might never come.

Sometimes, she swore she saw a flash of red and white armor in the crowd. Sometimes, she turned too fast, thinking she’d heard a voice she knew.

But no. They were gone. Thorn. Fox. So many others.

And yet, she remained.

When asked if it was worth it, she never gave the same answer twice.

Sometimes she said yes.

Sometimes she said no.

And sometimes, she just looked out over the city and said,

“Ask me again tomorrow.”

Previous part

A/N

I didn’t know how to end this, so I ended it bittersweet/tragic. I absolutely hate this ending ahahaha.

“The Lesser of Two Wars” pt.11

Commander Fox x Reader X Commander Thorn

The sun streamed softly through the skylights of the café nestled high in the Coruscant Senate District, the sky hazy but warm. For once, the city didn’t feel like durasteel and duty—it felt like a reprieve.

She sat at the center of a wide, cushioned booth, coffee in hand, a real pastry on her plate, and a few senators she trusted across from her.

Padmé Amidala was all soft smiles and elegant composure, draped in airy lilac silks. Mon Mothma sipped quietly at her tea, nodding along to a story about a misfiled vote and a rogue Ithorian delegate. For a moment, she allowed herself to forget the war, the complications, and the heartbreak waiting back at HQ.

“Honestly,” Padmé was saying, brushing a strand of hair from her face, “I think it’s only a matter of time before Senator Ask Aak tries to propose another committee solely to investigate snack break durations.”

“And I will die on the floor before I vote yes on that,” the senator deadpanned.

Everyone laughed.

Near the corner of the table, GH-9 sat stiffly in a borrowed chair, arms crossed.

Across from him stood C-3PO, who had been in a monologue about Senate etiquette protocols for the past eight minutes. “And as I was saying, I once witnessed a Rodian ambassador eat a napkin, and I said to him—politely of course—that—”

“I will self-destruct if he keeps talking,” GH-9 whispered across the table.

R7 chirped in agreement, not helping.

Padmé turned just in time to see GH-9 lean slowly to the left in his chair. Inch by inch. Clearly trying to slide behind the potted plant beside them.

“Is he—?” she began.

“Yes,” the senator said, watching her droid with utter betrayal. “GH-9, you’re not stealth-programmed. You sound like a toolbox falling down stairs.”

“I’m preservation-programmed,” he said flatly, halfway concealed behind a fern. “Preserving my sanity.”

C-3PO peered after him, clearly unaware. “Oh dear, did I say something to offend your companion?”

“You haven’t not offended him,” the senator muttered, sipping her caf with a grimace. “GH, back in your chair before I reassign you to Senator Orn Free Taa.”

GH-9 hissed audibly and reappeared.

The others laughed again, and it felt real. It wasn’t forced diplomacy or battlefield gallows humor—it was easy.

She leaned back in her seat, her fingers absently brushing over the edge of her cup, eyes softening.

This was the first bit of normality she’d tasted in… Force, she didn’t know how long. No bombs, no war, no heartbreak waiting just behind a hallway corner.

Just brunch. And friends. And her ridiculous, problematic, fiercely loyal droids.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Padmé and Mon.

Padmé smiled. “You deserve it. Whatever’s waiting after this—take this moment. Let it be real.”

She nodded, and for once, she let herself believe it.

The Senate Gardens were quiet that afternoon, a rare lull between committee meetings and security alerts. A breeze wound through the paths lined with silver-leafed trees and flowerbeds shaped like old planetary seals, bringing with it the scent of something vaguely floral and aggressively fertilized.

The senator strolled slowly, arms behind her back, letting the peace settle on her shoulders like a shawl. GH-9 followed dutifully a step behind, ever the loyal—if snide—shadow. R7 zipped ahead, occasionally stopping to examine flowers or scan the base of a tree for reasons known only to himself.

“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at her protocol droid, “I take back every time I said you talked too much.”

GH-9 tilted his metal head. “Growth. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just…” she sighed, then cracked a smile. “Thank the Maker you’re not like Padmé’s droid.”

“C-3PO.” GH-9 shuddered audibly. “His vocabulary is a weapon. And I say that as someone fluent in Huttese and forty-seven forms of insult.”

Behind them, R7 gave a sharp beep-beep-whoop, then a low, almost conspiratorial bwreeeet.

GH-9 translated immediately. “He says he considered pushing Threepio off the balcony. Twice.”

The senator stopped walking. “R7. You didn’t.”

R7 spun his dome proudly and beeped again.

“He would’ve landed in the ornamental koi pond,” GH added. “Not fatal. Possibly therapeutic.”

She snorted and shook her head, then leaned down and patted the astromech on the dome. “You’re going to get us barred from every brunch if you keep this up.”

R7 chirped in what could only be described as gleeful defiance.

They walked on, shoes soft against the stone path. GH-9 silently adjusted his internal temperature, scanning the area with a casual eye, always alert even on a leisurely stroll. R7 nudged a flowerpot for no apparent reason and then spun away before anyone could catch him.

The senator paused under a willow-fronded archway, taking in the stillness of the city from this rare, green perch.

“Just for today,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Let the galaxy run without me.”

Her droids flanked her quietly, one too sarcastic to say it aloud, the other too chaotic to sit still, but in their own strange way—they understood.

And for now, that was enough.

The quiet didn’t last.

The senator turned at the sound of approaching voices—one smooth and long-suffering, the other excited and young.

“—I’m just saying, Master, if Anakin can sneak out of his diplomatic duties, then maybe you should let me—”

“Padawan,” Kenobi’s voice was firm but amused, “if I must endure these soul-draining conversations, then so must you. Consider it training in patience.”

R7 gave a warning beep as the pair came into view, and GH-9 let out a long sigh that sounded entirely put-upon.

“Oh no,” GH muttered.

The senator smirked as Obi-Wan and Ahsoka stepped through the garden archway. Obi-Wan wore the tired expression of a man responsible for someone else’s teenager, while Ahsoka looked far too happy to be anywhere not involving politics.

“Senator,” Obi-Wan greeted her with a shallow bow, tone clipped but polite. “Apologies for the intrusion. Someone insisted on a detour through the gardens.”

“I said I heard R7 whirring and figured you were nearby,” Ahsoka said with a sheepish smile, stepping forward. “And I was right. He’s hard to miss.”

R7 let out a smug breep-breep.

“Of course he is,” GH-9 muttered. “He’s a four-wheeled menace with an ego the size of Kessel.”

The senator gave Ahsoka a warm smile. “It’s good to see you again. Still tormenting your masters, I hope?”

Ahsoka grinned. “Always.”

“And Anakin?”

“Gone,” Obi-Wan said flatly. “I’m certain he’s off flying something he wasn’t cleared to take.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

GH-9 gave an ahem. “Is it too late to apply for reassignment to the Jedi Temple? I feel I would fit in with the sarcasm and poorly timed emotional breakdowns.”

“Tempting,” Obi-Wan replied dryly. “But we’re quite full.”

The senator laughed softly. For all their chaos, this was the first time in a long while she’d felt truly…herself. Among friends. Just for a moment.

Ahsoka glanced at her, then at the droids, then elbowed Obi-Wan. “You see what happens when people actually like their astromechs?”

“I’m not convinced liking R7 is safe,” Obi-Wan replied.

“I’m right here,” the senator said.

“You nicknamed your astromech after a murder droid prototype,” Kenobi said pointedly.

“And?”

R7 beeped proudly.

They all walked together down the garden path, the sun cutting through the trees, the war momentarily at bay. Just a Jedi, a padawan, a senator, and two terrible droids sharing a rare pocket of peace.

⸻

The Senate rotunda was unusually quiet for mid-morning, the marble floors reflecting the soft golden light from the skylights overhead. Most of the Senators had retreated to their offices or were buried in committees, leaving the hallways hushed and peaceful.

She walked in silence, heels clicking softly, R7 trundling beside her with a low, rhythmic whirr.

It was rare to be alone without GH-9’s snide commentary, and even rarer to move through the Senate without being glared at, whispered about, or stopped by someone fishing for gossip about her war record. But for now, just for a little while, there was quiet.

Until she rounded the corner and nearly walked straight into Commander Fox.

He stopped short. So did she.

Her breath caught slightly in her throat—not just from the surprise, but from the look in his eyes. There was something unreadable behind the stoicism, something softer than usual. They stood there, face to face in the empty corridor.

“Senator,” he greeted, voice low and slightly rough.

“Commander.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected.

R7 beeped once in greeting. Fox gave the droid a slow nod, eyes never really leaving her.

“How’s your arm?” he asked, glancing briefly at the faded bruise near her elbow—one he shouldn’t have even noticed.

“Healing. You notice things like that?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he said simply.

Their silence was heavy but not uncomfortable. The tension between them wasn’t sharp—it was something else. Quieter. Close.

Fox shifted slightly. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you again… alone.”

She tilted her head. “About?”

His eyes searched hers. “About a few things. But none I can say properly here.”

A breathless pause lingered between them. Her lips parted to respond—just as a sharp bzzzzt and a startled, panicked wheeze echoed down the hall.

Fox’s head whipped toward the noise.

“What—?”

They both turned in time to see Senator Orn Free Taa stumble out of a side chamber, smoke curling from his heavy robes and one eye twitching violently.

Behind him, R7 retracted a small taser arm, beeping in what sounded suspiciously like satisfaction.

“You… you monster!” Orn Free Taa wailed. “That droid attacked me!”

“R7!” she gasped, both horrified and not remotely surprised. “What did you do?”

R7 gave a low, smug trill, followed by a short sequence of beeps that translated loosely to: He touched me. Twice. I warned him.

Fox blinked slowly, then turned to her. “Is this a normal day for you?”

“Less normal than you’d think, more than I’d like.”

Orn Free Taa continued to sputter. “I will have that thing decommissioned!”

R7 flashed red for just a second.

Fox stepped forward smoothly, posture stiff with authority. “Senator Free Taa, if you’d like to file a formal complaint, I suggest doing so through the appropriate channels. In the meantime, perhaps don’t antagonize sensitive hardware.”

Orn huffed and stormed off, muttering about assassins and droid uprisings.

Fox glanced back at her, then at R7. “He’s got personality.”

“He’s got issues.”

Fox gave the faintest, fleeting smile. “He fits in well with the rest of your entourage, then.”

She didn’t argue.

He lingered a moment longer, and when he spoke again, it was quieter.

“When you’re ready… come find me.”

And just like that, he walked away, leaving her with the scent of durasteel and something human.

R7 beeped once. She looked down.

“No,” she muttered, “you don’t get praise for tasing Taa.”

R7 whirred indignantly.

“…But thanks.”

⸻

The moment the senator stepped through the doors of her apartment, the tension began to slip from her shoulders.

Coruscant’s towering skyline glowed outside her windows, the buzz of speeders distant, like bees in a jar. Inside, however, her apartment was a rare sanctuary of quiet. The lights had been dimmed to a warm amber hue, and something actually smelled good.

“GH,” she called, slipping off her shoes. “Did you get the groceries I asked for?”

The protocol droid stepped into view with his usual self-important flourish, holding a wooden spoon like a scepter.

“Indeed, Senator. Organic produce only. Locally sourced. And I took the liberty of preparing a traditional dish from your homeworld. You’re welcome.”

She blinked. “You cooked?”

“Someone has to ensure you don’t wither away on cheap caf and political backstabbing. Now sit. Eat. Hydrate.”

“Did you poison it?”

“Only with love and an appropriate sodium content.”

She smirked and dropped onto the couch, letting her head fall back. R7 beeped in from his corner near the charging station, where he was currently judging the wine selection GH-9 had apparently pulled out.

Dinner was good—suspiciously good, considering GH’s history of being more bark than bite when it came to domestic duties. She’d almost forgotten how nice it was to sit, eat warm food, and not worry about her planet’s future or which clone might punch another one next.

That is, until GH-9 spoke again.

“By the way, Master Vos has been standing on your balcony for the past hour.”

She nearly choked on her wine. “What?”

“I refused to let him in. He tried to sweet-talk me, claimed he had urgent Jedi business, but I could sense it was likely just gossip. Or feelings. Or both.”

“GH,” she groaned, standing.

“I told him you were not available for nonsense. He insisted on waiting anyway. Shall I continue denying him entry?”

She padded toward the balcony doors, glass catching the light. Sure enough, Quinlan Vos was outside—hood up, arms folded, leaning against the railing like a kicked puppy pretending to be a sulky teenager.

He knocked once, with exaggerated slowness.

She stared at him through the glass. R7 wheeled up behind her, beeped once, and extended his taser arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“No,” she sighed. “We’re not tasing Vos.”

R7 beeped again, very pointedly.

“Not tonight.”

She cracked the door open just enough to glare at the man leaning far too comfortably on her private balcony. “You know normal people knock on doors.”

“I did,” Vos said, gesturing to GH through the glass. “He hissed at me and threw a ladle.”

“I did not hiss,” GH called from the kitchen. “I was firm, composed, and wielding kitchenware appropriately.”

She opened the door wider. “What do you want?”

Vos smiled sheepishly. “Just wanted to see how your day went. I heard through various channels there may have been… tasering?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not coming in.”

“I won’t touch anything. I swear.”

“GH,” she called, already regretting this, “make up the couch.”

“I will not,” GH sniffed, “but I will sanitize it after.”

Vos grinned wide as he stepped inside, boots clunking softly. “I knew you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

R7 beeped softly from beside her, his taser still not fully retracted.

“…Okay, maybe a little,” she muttered, walking back toward her half-eaten dinner. “But if you breathe too loud, I’m letting R7 handle it.”

R7 chirped in bloodthirsty agreement.

⸻

Previous Part | Next Part

“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.8

Commander Fox x Reader x Commander Thorn

It was late.

The upper halls of the Senate were near silent, the buzz of daylong debates finally faded into stillness. The Senator walked the corridors alone, the soles of her boots echoing softly over polished floors. Fox had offered to escort her back to her office, but they’d both stayed behind—long after the others had gone—to “wrap up” some excuse neither of them really believed.

He was waiting near the entrance to her office, helmet under his arm, every inch of him wound tight.

“I should go,” he said, voice low.

“You should,” she agreed.

He didn’t move.

She stepped closer. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

“I’m supposed to.” His gaze flicked over her face. “You’re still under protection.”

“From what, Commander?” she asked, her voice dipped in something soft, sharp. “What exactly are you protecting me from right now?”

Fox swallowed. He didn’t answer.

She moved closer still, until the air between them felt thinner than breath. “You’ve been trying to outrun this since the moment I met you.”

He looked at her like she was dangerous. Like she was something he couldn’t survive.

And then he kissed her.

No hesitation this time. No orders to fall back. Just the hard grip of a calloused hand at her jaw, the pull of lips meeting hers like the break of a dam. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t pretty. But Maker, it was honest.

They parted just slightly—his breath hitched, her eyes half-lidded with disbelief.

But they weren’t alone anymore.

Thorn stood a few meters down the hall, fists clenched at his sides, fury carved into every line of his face. “Are you karking serious?”

Fox turned sharply. “Thorn—”

“You son of a bitch.” Thorn strode forward. “You pulled rank on me. You sent me back to barracks like I was some shinie with no impulse control—and here you are—”

“It’s not the same,” Fox snapped.

“Oh, it’s not? Enlighten me.”

“You were careless.”

“And you’re a hypocrite.”

The next second, fists were flying.

Thorn hit first, shoulder braced as he slammed Fox into the wall with enough force to rattle the durasteel. Fox didn’t hesitate, launching a hard right hook that cracked across Thorn’s cheek. The fight was a tangle of trained bodies, of grunts and snapped oaths, two elite commanders going feral in polished halls that had seen too much.

The Senator stepped back once—twice—then growled under her breath.

“Enough.” Her voice was thunderous. When they didn’t stop, she surged forward.

She grabbed Thorn’s collar and yanked him back hard enough to throw him off balance. He stumbled and fell. Before Fox could recover, she spun and caught him with a sharp heel to the back of the leg, sending him to the ground with a pained grunt.

They both stared up at her in stunned silence.

Hair tousled. Jaw tight. Fury simmering just beneath her skin.

“You two are commanders. Grown men. Soldiers. And you’re throwing punches like teenagers in a hangar bay.”

They didn’t respond.

She exhaled sharply, pacing between them. “You want to fight over me? You better ask yourselves why. Because I’m not a prize to be won. I’m a senator, a former commander, and the next one of you who uses your fists to make a point better be ready to go through me first.”

They were quiet for a long moment. Then Thorn muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

Fox nodded, slower. “Understood.”

She gave them each a final, withering glare… then turned on her heel and walked away, leaving the silence of their bruises and bitter pride behind her.

⸻

The walk back to the barracks was silent.

Fox and Thorn, bruised and bloody in places they wouldn’t admit, barely glanced at one another. The silence between them crackled—too raw, too heavy to be ignored.

When they stepped inside the common area, the atmosphere shifted. Hound was the first to notice. He sat lounging on the couch, polishing his boots with Grizzer dozing at his feet. Stone and Thire flanked the table, eating ration bars and playing sabacc.

“Stars,” Stone muttered, eyes flicking up. “Did someone dropkick you both off a gunship?”

“Thorn looks like he kissed a shock baton,” Thire added.

Hound smirked, wiping his hands. “Please tell me you two didn’t fight each other.”

“It’s none of your business,” Fox snapped, pulling off his gloves and heading toward his bunk.

But Thorn, scowling and still charged with adrenaline, threw his helmet down with a loud clang.

“Oh, you want to act like it didn’t happen? Sure. Let’s lie to the rest of the battalion now, too.” He turned to the others. “Fox kissed the senator. After all that crap about professionalism. After he pulled rank on me.”

The room went quiet.

Stone raised his eyebrows. Thire gave a low whistle.

Hound blinked. “No kidding. Thought you two were going to chew each other’s armor off first.”

Fox spun around, jaw tight. “Drop it, Hound.”

But Hound smirked wider. “Guess it hits different when it’s you breaking your own rules, huh?”

The hit came fast.

Fox’s fist cracked across Hound’s jaw, sending him sprawling backward onto the floor. Grizzer was on his feet in an instant, growling deep, protective instincts firing off like alarms. The other clones leapt up, reaching for Hound, grabbing Fox’s arm—but the mastiff didn’t wait.

The beast lunged, barking furiously, teeth bared.

“Back!” Fox shouted, backing up, hand reaching instinctively for the stunner at his hip. “Control your animal, or I will.”

“You even threaten him again, I swear to—” Hound was up now, lip bloodied, rage simmering.

Stone and Thire jumped in to block both sides, but Thorn charged next, shoving Fox hard in the chest.

“You karking hypocrite!”

The barracks exploded into chaos.

It was fists and shouts and boots scraping over concrete. Grizzer was barking, circling, teeth snapping near anyone too close to Hound. Fox and Thorn were at each other’s throats again, Thire wrestling Thorn back while Stone tried to keep Fox from swinging again.

And then—

“Enough!”

Two voices barked like blaster fire.

Marshal Commanders Cody and Neyo stood in the threshold like twin storms.

Every clone froze. Even Grizzer stilled, tail twitching low, a warning growl still rolling in his chest.

Fox’s chest heaved, bruised knuckles clenched. Neyo stepped forward without hesitation, gripped Fox by the collar of his blacks, and dragged him toward the hallway.

“You’re coming with me,” Neyo snapped. “Now.”

Fox didn’t argue. He let himself be pulled from the room, the others watching in silence.

Cody stood a moment longer, arms folded, gaze sweeping the wrecked common space.

“You’re supposed to be leaders,” he said, voice cold. “Not a squad of kriffing cadets on their first week. You think command comes without control? That it gives you license to throw punches over who’s got feelings?”

They said nothing.

“You want to blow off steam, take it to the training floor. I don’t want to hear another word about brawls in the barracks. And if I do—I will sort it out next time. And none of you want that.”

“Yes, sir,” came the low, unified murmur.

Cody turned sharply and left.

Grizzer whined softly, pressing his head to Hound’s thigh.

Thire muttered under his breath. “They’re gonna kill each other before the war does.”

Stone leaned back against the wall, shaking his head. “Or fall in love with the same senator and burn down Coruscant trying.”

⸻

Fox didn’t say a word as Neyo gripped the front of his armor and dragged him down the corridor like a disgraced cadet. His boots scraped and slammed against the durasteel floor with every step. Fox could feel the eyes of the Guard on him as they passed—wide, silent, shocked.

The door to an empty training room hissed open.

Neyo shoved Fox inside so hard he stumbled.

The door slammed shut.

“You arrogant, undisciplined fool,” Neyo spat, voice venomous. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Fox stood tall, silent. His lip still bled from the earlier fight.

Neyo stalked in a tight circle around him like a predator, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw rigid with fury. “You are a Marshal Commander, Fox. You’re supposed to be an example. A standard. The Republic’s line of order.”

Fox’s fingers twitched.

“And yet I find you brawling like a gutter rat in your own barracks. Punching your own men. Threatening to put down a mastiff like you’ve lost every ounce of judgment and humanity you ever had.”

“I—”

“Shut your mouth.”

Neyo’s voice cracked like a whip. His gray eyes were ice, unrelenting.

“You are a disgrace,” he snapped. “You think Palpatine doesn’t have ears everywhere? You think your little war of hormones hasn’t been noticed?”

Fox clenched his jaw.

“This senator—whatever obsession you’ve developed—it’s compromised you. You’ve turned into the kind of unstable mess that gets people killed.”

Neyo stepped closer, his voice quieter but deadlier. “You’ve forgotten what we are. We serve. We protect. We don’t feel. We’re not allowed to want.”

“She’s different,” Fox muttered.

Neyo barked a cold laugh.

“Oh, she’s different, alright. She’s got you tearing your own command apart from the inside out. You’ve broken your discipline. You’ve broken rank. You’ve broken yourself.”

Fox’s nostrils flared. He didn’t speak.

Neyo’s tone dipped lower, cutting.

“You wanna throw it all away for a senator with a bloody past and a smile that melts steel? Fine. But you’ll do it without that title. Without that armor. Without the men who trusted you.”

That one hit.

Fox looked up sharply.

Neyo’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t want to be a commander anymore, Fox? Say the word. I’ll strip your code and you can go chase tail in the lower levels with every other brain-dead grunt who forgot what we were bred for.”

The room rang with silence.

Then—

“I haven’t forgotten,” Fox said quietly. “Not for a second.”

Neyo stared him down. And for the first time, Fox looked… tired.

“I’m trying to hold it together,” Fox said. “But it’s like she pulled a pin and now I can’t stuff everything back in.”

Neyo stared at him a moment longer, then turned his back.

“I don’t want excuses. I want a commander.”

He walked out without another word.

The door hissed shut behind him.

Fox stood alone in the dim quiet, shaking slightly, adrenaline bleeding off.

Then the door slid open again.

“Hell of a beating,” Cody said mildly, stepping in. “He always did know how to cut deep.”

Fox didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the scuffed floor.

Cody walked over, calm as ever, arms crossed.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I kissed her,” Fox said finally.

Cody didn’t even blink.

Fox exhaled, shoulders heavy. “After I punished Thorn for the same thing.”

“Ah,” Cody said. “So this is a whole mess.”

“She does something to me, Cody. I don’t know how to explain it. I’ve spent years keeping myself locked down. Keeping control. Then she walks in and it’s like… everything I’ve buried starts clawing its way back up.”

Cody was quiet.

Fox’s voice dropped lower. “She’s fire. Controlled chaos. And I’m supposed to be stone.”

“Even stone cracks under enough pressure,” Cody said. “You’re not a machine, vod. You never were. But what you are is a leader. And you’ve got to decide which version of you survives this. The soldier, or the man.”

Fox looked up at him.

Cody’s voice softened just a touch. “You can’t be both. Not forever.”

⸻

The barracks were quieter than usual when Fox walked in.

He didn’t storm through like a commander this time—didn’t bark orders, didn’t expect salutes. He walked with purpose, but not with authority. His helmet was under his arm, and something strange lingered in his expression… something like regret.

The lounge had the usual suspects: Hound nursing a bruised jaw, Thire reading reports, Stone half-dozing in the corner. Grizzer lay sprawled under the table, big head on his paws.

They all looked up when Fox stopped in the doorway.

He stood there a second, then took a breath.

“I was out of line.”

That alone was enough to make Hound blink.

“I let personal feelings cloud my judgment. I lost control. I disrespected my rank and you, my brothers.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry.”

He stepped forward. From behind his back, he pulled out a wrapped bundle.

“I figured if I owed anyone the biggest apology…” He crouched down, unwrapped it, and slid a hefty bone across the floor.

Grizzer’s ears perked. He sniffed it, then took it gently—almost respectfully—and lumbered off to gnaw in peace.

“Thanks,” Hound muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Still hurts like hell.”

Fox gave a wry smirk. “It should.”

Stone chuckled. “You gonna cry next or…?”

Fox just shook his head. “No. But I am going to make it right.”

He nodded once, turned, and left.

⸻

Thorn was on the upper level, seated on a bench outside the weapons maintenance bay, arms folded, helmet beside him.

Fox approached slowly.

“Thorn.”

No answer.

Fox took a breath, then sat beside him, not too close. Just close enough.

“I was wrong,” he said simply. “What I did… punishing you, calling you out… then doing the same thing myself. That’s not leadership. That’s hypocrisy.”

Thorn glanced over, eyes dark with residual anger. “No argument here.”

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Fox said. “But I didn’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Thorn let out a breath, slow and heavy.

“You’re still in love with her?”

Fox didn’t answer for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Have been for a while. Doesn’t mean I have the right to be.”

Thorn leaned back, looking up at the overhead lights. “You ever think we’re not built for this kind of thing?”

“All the time.”

Another pause.

“I appreciate the apology,” Thorn said at last. “Doesn’t erase the bruise, but it helps.”

Fox gave a short nod.

They sat in silence a little longer—two soldiers, two men, caught between duty and desire.

Then Fox stood. “I’ll see you on rotation.”

Thorn nodded. “Yeah. See you then.”

As Fox walked away, Thorn called after him, voice neutral but edged in meaning.

“Don’t screw it up again.”

Fox didn’t look back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

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