Fantastic Story! Excitedly Waiting For More!! Fives Flirting, Not Hitting His Mark. The 501st. Anidala.

Fantastic story! Excitedly waiting for more!! Fives flirting, not hitting his mark. The 501st. Anidala. The intrigue is building. 😍

Good Graces

Chapter Three

Tags/Warnings: graphic (and casual) depiction of violence, wounds, death, etc.

Chapter WC: 4,449

A/N: Okay so this is going to be longer than I thought. Definitely less than 20 chapters, but probably more than 10, by virtue of me trying to keep these all under 10k each.

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Join the Taglist | Masterlist

Esmé takes the lead as soon as they step out onto the street. She moves quickly, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. She doesn't so much as slow down, even when a couple bumps into her, muttering something under their breath. Fives has to jog to catch up with her, his steps a little clumsy in his haste, his arms swinging by his sides. She doesn't look back. She just keeps moving.

She's not okay. She's trying to hide it, but she's not. He can see it in the way her shoulders are pulled tight, her back ramrod straight. Her breathing is too fast, and her hands are shaking, her knuckles white. She's on edge, and it's more than just a brush with a bounty hunter. She's seen them before, that much is clear, and this isn't her first time having to deal with one.

Ahead, the crowds begin to thin, the streets emptying as they move farther away from the marketplace. It's quieter, the noise of the festival muffled by the tall buildings, and the air is crisp, a gentle breeze blowing through. It's not exactly a short walk, but Esmé makes quick work of it, her strides long and sure with the confidence of someone who's walked the same path a hundred times.

She doesn't speak, and Fives doesn't ask. He's not sure he wants to know the answer.

He's not really sure what happened. One minute, they were fine, and the next...well. He's not sure.

There had been a moment when they were in the alley. He'd grabbed her and covered her with his body. And maybe he should've said something, explained what he was doing, but he hadn't. Instead, he'd just stood there, and she hadn't protested.

He can still feel the warmth of her, the way her hair had tickled his face, her breath against his neck. Her skin had been soft beneath his fingertips, and she'd smelled sweet, like some kind of flower. She hadn't moved away. Hadn't tried to push him off. In fact, he'd swear that she'd leaned into him. Just a bit. Just for a second.

And then, in the blink of an eye, she was a million lightyears away. She'd practically sprinted out of the alley and onto the street, leaving him to follow. It had happened so fast, so suddenly, that he's still trying to wrap his head around it.

Had he done something wrong? Said something wrong? He knows he has a habit of pissing people off, especially when he's nervous, but she'd been smiling. Maybe he was just seeing things, hoping for something that wasn't there, and the fact that he's already starting to spiral is a sign that he's screwed this up beyond repair.

He's not going to give up. He can't. There's something between them. He can feel it. He just has to figure out how to bring her walls down.

“Bounty hunters are like sand fleas," Fives speaks up, trying for a joke. Anything to break the tension, anything to distract her. "Once you get one, you just end up with a hundred more. They're annoying like that."

Esmé doesn't laugh. She doesn't even crack a smile. She just keeps walking, her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her.

Alright, that was a bust. He clears his throat and tries again.

"So, you...uh...you've got experience with bounty hunters, I take it?"

"What gave it away?" she asks, her voice dry and her lips pursed.

Okay. He deserved that. He can't help the snort that escapes him.

"Yeah, fair enough," he concedes with a shrug. He scratches the back of his head, his gaze flicking towards her and then away. "Do they...do they come after you guys a lot?"

"Sometimes."

"Is it always bounty hunters, or do you get a little bit of everything?" he asks. She doesn't reply, and he's not sure she's going to. He doesn't want her to shut down, not again. He sighs and tries a different approach. "I heard you got attacked a while back. A bunch of droids, or something, right? Was that... Was that your first time?"

Esmé stops suddenly, and Fives almost runs into her. They're not far from the Senator's apartments, only a block or two away, but he's grateful for the reprieve. His arm is aching, the bag of groceries hanging heavily from his hand, and his legs are burning from his attempts to keep up with her.

"No," Esmé says, her voice low. She looks up at him and purses her lips. "No, that wasn't the first time."

"Oh."

That's all he can think to say. Oh. It doesn't really feel adequate, doesn't really capture the full depth of his surprise and confusion and...and anger.

Anger, because he knows that this can't be normal, and the fact that she's clearly had to do this more than once means that there's a problem. It means that the Senate, the GAR, everyone, has failed.

Failed her.

He's not sure why, but that bothers him. Maybe it's the fact that he and his brothers are supposed to be part of the solution, part of the solution to all the problems in the galaxy, and yet he's standing here, talking to a woman who has clearly been attacked more times than she's willing to admit, and who doesn't even seem surprised by it. Or maybe it's just because he likes her, and the thought of someone trying to hurt her makes him feel sick.

Fives doesn't like it. He doesn't like any of it.

They stand in silence for a few moments, their eyes locked, and then Esmé turns away, her gaze flitting over the nearby rooftops. She's looking for the hunter, or at least he assumes she is. Her hand is resting on her blaster, her fingers tracing the handle, and she's chewing on the inside of her cheek, her brow furrowed.

"You're right," she mutters as she starts walking again.

Fives hurries to catch up, his boots loud against the paved stone. He looks at her, confused, and raises a brow. "About what?"

"About bounty hunters." Her eyes meet his for a moment, and her lips press together. "Where there's one, there's another. We should hurry."

He doesn't need to be told twice. They fall into step with each other, and she leads the way, her stride steady and her back straight. Fives keeps pace, his gaze sweeping the nearby rooftops, his stomach churning.

He should have been faster, should have acted sooner, should have known. He should have seen the threat coming, should have had a better response, and should have had a better plan. He shouldn't have been so distracted by her, and he shouldn't have let himself get caught off guard. He should have been better.

He'll have to be better.

“Captain,” Fives speaks into his comm, his voice quiet. "I think we might have a problem."

There’s no response, and he frowns. He taps his vambrace.

"Rex?"

Silence.

His gut twists, and his steps falter. He stops, his hand reaching for his blaster, his gaze searching the rooftops above him. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon, the shadows lengthening and the sky growing dark. There are windows everywhere, and the balconies are crammed with potted plants, the railings lined with colorful fabric and the windowsills decorated with small statues and lanterns. It would be easy to hide, even in plain sight.

Esmé pauses, her attention on him, her expression expectant. He shakes his head.

"It's probably nothing," he says, trying to sound casual. "Probably just a faulty connection. I'll try again—"

"Don't," she cuts him off, her voice hard. "If they're jamming communications, then we don't want them to know we're onto them."

"But the others," Fives begins as he gestures helplessly, his hand waving in the air. "If they don't know, then—"

"We're not far," she assures him. There's a hint of compassion in her voice. It's not much, just a slight softening of the edges, but it's enough to show that she does care. More than she lets on. "Just a few minutes. We can handle a few minutes."

"Yeah," he agrees. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders squaring. "You're right. We've got this."

Esmé nods.

"Good," she says. "Let's go."

They move quickly, their steps echoing down the narrow alleyways, the music and chatter of the festival fading the farther they go. They reach the building where Senator Amidala is staying within minutes, and Fives feels himself relax when he sees the troopers are still posted outside. Esmé doesn't slow. She walks right past them, her hand on her blaster, and heads straight for the door.

The men look startled, and then confused, their helmets moving from Esmé to Fives, and then to each other. Esmé strides through the lobby and disappears into the turbolift, her finger jabbing the button, and Fives has to run to catch up with her before the lift doors close on him.

"Don't let anyone else in," he calls over his shoulder as the doors slide shut, and then the lift is moving, the numbers climbing higher and higher.

Fives shifts his weight from foot to foot, his grip on the bag tight. He can see their distorted reflection on the metal surface, the bags beneath his eyes and the tense line of his shoulders. His helmet is still sitting on the coffee table, and it feels like a mistake. He should have kept it on. Should have been ready for a fight.

They're nearly at the top when a burst of muffled blasterfire reaches their ears, the sound coming from the floor above. They freeze as their gazes meet in the reflection. The distorted version of Esmé nods once, and he does the same. She draws her blaster, her fingers curling around the handle, and her thumb flicks the safety off.

The turbolift slows to a stop, and the doors open with a soft chime.

The scene in front of them is chaos.

Bodies litter the hallway, the floor and walls littered with holes and scorch marks, the plaster cracked and the tile broken. The door to the Senator's apartment hisses as it opens and closes repeatedly, stuck on the security droid lying deactivated in the entrance. Two RNSF soldiers are sprawled in the middle of the hallway, blood pooling beneath them, their eyes glassy and their bodies limp.

Esmé lets out a breath, taking a step forward, and Fives reacts without thinking. He grabs her and shoves her back into the turbolift, and her back hits the wall with a thud. Her eyes go wide, her mouth dropping open as a gasp escapes her.

"Stay here," he orders. His hands are on her shoulders, holding her in place. "Wait for the Captain."

A furious look washes over her, and Esmé's nostrils flare. "You can't—"

"Stay. Here," he repeats, dropping the bag of groceries beside her. He pulls his pistols from their holsters, his grip tight and his jaw clenched. "Do not leave this turbolift."

Fives doesn't give her a chance to argue. He steps into the hallway and hits the control panel, and the doors closes on her protests, her face vanishing from view. The sound of a fist banging on the door is the last thing he hears before the lift starts moving.

He can't wait. He has to act, now, before the situation gets any worse. He takes a deep breath, his gaze flitting between the fallen men, and then he rushes forward, his strides long and his blasters raised.

His mind is racing, a million thoughts flitting through his head at once. Where are the others? Who is attacking the Senator's security detail? Are they even still alive? Who else has the clearance to access the floor?

He should have done a perimeter sweep. He should have checked the rooftops. He should have made sure the area was clear. He shouldn't have let his guard down. He shouldn't have left his squad. He should have—

Fives pushes the door open and stumbles to a stop, his body slamming into the door frame.

The room is a mess. Blasterfire has ripped through the walls, the plaster shredded, chunks of rock and wood scattered across the floor. Furniture is broken, the sofa torn and the cushions ripped, and a painting lies crooked on the wall, a hole punched through the canvas.

Kix is kneeling on the ground, hovering over Tup, whose hand is pressed to his chest, his armor stained red. Jesse and Rex are crouched behind a pile of upturned furniture, their bodies angled towards the staircase. A man dressed in black lies on the ground, his limbs akimbo, his body still.

The Senator and General Skywalker are nowhere to be seen.

Jesse notices him first. His head turns towards Fives, and he holds a finger to the mouth of his helmet.

Fives nods and creeps inside, his back brushing against the wall, and he keeps his blasters trained on the stairs. There's no movement, and no noise except for the sound of Kix working, his hands quick and his movements practiced.

Fives edges closer, his steps careful, and he ducks behind the pile of furniture.

"What's the situation?" he whispers.

"Bounty hunter," Rex answers. He sounds tired, his voice rough, and his body is slumped against the couch. "He had some kind of disruptor on him. Jammed our comms."

"Is he alone?"

"He is now." Rex nods toward the body. "Tup got him. Barely."

Fives risks a glance over at Kix, who's applying bacta to Tup's chest. Tup's breathing is labored, his face pale, but his eyes are open. He gives Fives a weak smile, his hand raising in a small wave, and Fives waves back.

He takes a breath and turns his attention back to the staircase.

"Senator and General?" he asks.

"General's guarding the Senator. She took a shot to the shoulder. They're barricaded in her room."

Fives feels a wave of guilt wash over him. He should have been here. Should have helped. Instead, he was off, flirting with a pretty girl and buying groceries, and his brothers were stuck fighting a battle without him.

He should have known.

"Where's your handmaiden?" Jesse asks. "She alright?"

"In the lift," he replies. "I told her to stay put. Figured she was safer there than out here."

"And you think she's gonna listen to you?"

"No," he admits, his lips twisting into a wry smile. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Probably not."

Jesse lets out a huff of amusement, and he leans forward, his gaze fixed on the staircase. There's a long, jagged crack running up the wall, the paint peeling away. There's blood on the railing, and more splattered against the wall. Someone had been hit. Fives hopes it wasn't the Senator.

Fives scans the area, his gaze flickering from one corner to the next. He doesn't see any traps, any signs of hidden enemies, or anything else that might indicate a potential threat. The apartment is silent, and it's almost unnerving, the lack of noise making his skin crawl.

A second later, the warble of a lightsaber and the sound of pounding feet reaches their ears. Someone is running towards them, fast and hard, and the other troopers are on their feet before Fives can react, their weapons raised. They're all aiming at the stairs, their stances wide, their shoulders tense and their fingers ready.

The footsteps come closer, and then the figure appears, leaping down the stairs two at a time, their head down and their arms pumping. They're wearing a heavy cloak and a hood, a long scarf wrapped around their neck, and Fives only has a moment to register the familiarity of it all before the figure is sprinting past, and then diving for the window.

Fives propels himself forward, intercepting them, his arms wrapping around their waist, and he slams them both into the floor, his shoulder colliding with the ground. The impact knocks the air from his lungs, and he groans as an elbow cracks into his nose, his grip releasing on instinct.

The bounty hunter gets to their feet and dodges the blaster bolts Rex and Jesse fire at them. They reach the window and pull the curtains aside, their hands reaching for the latch, and they throw the window open. A gust of wind sweeps through the room, blowing the curtains wide and knocking a potted plant onto its side.

A single, precise shot rings out, and the bounty hunter's body jerks.

Their knees buckle, legs folding under them, and they crumple to the ground. The window slams shut, and the curtains fall back into place. Fives looks from the dead body to the window, and then to the source of the shot.

He hadn't even heard Esmé approach, hadn't heard her enter the room, but there she is, standing in the doorway, her blaster still raised, the bag of groceries hanging over her arm. She lets out a sigh and holsters her weapon.

She killed him.

Just like that. In a single shot, without so much as a second glance, and Fives... he's not sure what to do with that. It's one thing for a clone or a Jedi to kill a person, but for a civilian, a handmaiden, to do it? Without a hint of hesitation or remorse? He's not sure he's ever seen something like that before.

Rex lowers his blasters, and the others do the same. They look at her, and then each other, and then back at her. No one says a word.

Fives swallows and slowly pushes himself to his feet, his palms pressing into the carpet, his eyes still fixed on Esmé. She's looking down at the body with barely a hint of emotion, her mouth twisted in distaste. She seems more annoyed than anything.

"I told you to stay put," Fives tells her, touching his nose gingerly. It's not what he wants to say. There are a thousand other things he should be saying, should be asking, but that's what comes out. "Couldn't listen for five minutes, could you?"

Esmé ignores him as she takes a tentative step inside. Her eyes land on Tup, and her brows draw together.

"Are you alright?" she asks softly.

Tup's head is propped up against the wall, his helmet discarded on the floor, his hand pressed to his chest. He tries to sit up, but Kix pushes him back, and Tup winces, his teeth bared.

"I'm fine, ma'am," he says, his voice hoarse. He manages a grin, his cheeks flushed. "Just a scratch."

General Skywalker appears at the top of the stairs, his expression stormy and his robes rumpled, his hair a mess and lightsaber held tightly in his hands. The tension drains from his shoulders when his gaze lands on them. He glances at the body and then at Esmé, and his brows raise.

"Nice work, Es," he says with a sigh, and he deactivates his lightsaber, clipping it to his belt. "How many was that, now?"

Esmé's lip curls.

"Eight," she answers flatly. She's still focused on Tup, her eyes moving over his body, cataloguing the damage. "You should have had a better security detail, Anakin."

"Oh, yeah? I'll keep that in mind next time," the General scoffs.

"Do that."

Fives looks between them, his eyes darting from General Skywalker to Esmé and back again. The Senator comes around the corner a few seconds later, moving slowly. She's holding a hand over her shoulder, the other wrapped around her torso, and she's pale, her face pinched and her robes torn. She takes a step forward toward the stairs, but she stumbles, and General Skywalker is there in an instant, his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her upright.

The calm expression on Esmé's face fades, and for the first time since the attack began, Fives sees fear flicker across her features. The bag of groceries falls from her hands, hitting the floor with a loud thump, and she starts forward across the room and up the stairs.

Fives watches her go, his chest tight.

The others are talking, but he doesn't hear them. He's watching Esmé, watching the way her face softens as she helps the Senator, her arm wrapping around her back and her hand coming to rest on her hip, supporting her weight. She's murmuring something, too quiet for him to hear, and the Senator's head drops onto her shoulder, her eyes falling closed.

It doesn't make sense.

Nothing about her makes sense.

She's a handmaiden, a servant. She's a civilian. She shouldn't know how to shoot, shouldn't be able to defend herself, and she definitely shouldn't be able to take out a bounty hunter like it's nothing. She shouldn't be so good at it. And yet... she is.

The Senator is leaning against Esmé, her hand gripping the back of her tunic, her body curled into her side. Esmé doesn't seem to notice the weight, her focus fixed on the Senator, her voice soft and soothing.

Something about the scene is unsettling. She should be frightened, should be afraid. She should be shaking, or crying, or something. Instead, she's standing there, her hand rubbing slow circles on the Senator's back, her chin resting atop her head, and her eyes are hard.

The General says something, and then he and the Senator disappear back around the corner. Esmé follows, her hand resting lightly on the Senator's arm, and Kix is on his feet, rushing after them, the medkit in his hands.

Fives should follow. He should make sure the Senator is okay. He should check on the rest of the men, and make sure the building is clear, and call for a clean-up crew, and find out how the hell a bounty hunter was able to get past them all and into the Senator's apartments.

But he can't seem to make his feet move.

He's frozen. His whole body feels like lead, his hands shaking and his heart pounding. He can't seem to shake the visual of Esmé, her face twisted with determination, her aim true, and her eyes hard.

Eight.

The number rings in his head, repeating over and over. Eight. Eight bounty hunters she's killed. Eight attempts on the Senator's life, and each time, Esmé has been the one to stop them. It should be impossible. It should be a fluke. But the General had said eight like it was nothing, and Esmé hadn't denied it.

And then, in the space of a single, heart-stopping moment, Fives understands.

It's like everything is falling into place, and the puzzle is finally complete, the picture coming together. She's not just a handmaiden. She's not just a civilian. She's not even a soldier.

She's a trained killer, and a damn good one.

"So," Jesse starts, his voice cutting through the silence, his helmet tilted in Fives' direction. He has his arms hooked underneath one of the bounty hunter's, and he's dragging them out onto the balcony. "You going to tell us what happened with her, or...?"

"Or what?"

"Or I'm gonna start guessing," he replies, his voice teasing. He sounds completely unfazed by what just happened, like taking out a bounty hunter is an everyday occurrence, which, considering who they are, it kind of is. "I mean, I've got a lot of ideas. And none of them are very nice."

"Well," Rex chimes in as he moves to help lift the dead weight, "he did spend the evening with a pretty girl. We all know how those usually go."

Fives rolls his eyes, and he can't help the chuckle that escapes him.

"Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up," he mutters. He crosses the room and bends down, grabbing the abandoned bag of groceries and scooping the fruit that had spilled out back into the bag. "You got me. I spent my evening trying to flirt with a pretty girl, and it went so well she shot someone in the head."

Rex snorts, and Jesse lets out a loud bark of laughter. Tup just grins, his lips stretched into a wide, teasing smile.

"You were gone for a long time," he points out, his eyes dancing with amusement. "What took you so long?"

"I had a lot of flirting to do," Fives retorts, and the men laugh again. He smirks, straightening. "A lot of groceries to buy. Besides, you can't rush these things. You gotta go at the lady's pace. Right, Captain?"

Rex holds his hands up in surrender as he drops the bounty hunter's body beside the railing.

"Don't drag me into this," he warns, shaking his head. "I've got enough problems as it is."

"Ah, come on, Rex. You and General Anathorn are adorable," Jesse teases, and Rex shoots him a dark look. "Maybe you can give Fives some advice."

"Yeah, Rex. Advice."

"You know, I think you boys have got this handled," Rex says dryly. He heads for the stairs, his steps brisk. "I'm going to go see if General Skywalker needs help."

The men chuckle and wave him off.

Fives watches him go, and then turns back to his brothers, his gaze scanning the apartment. The windows are cracked, and the plaster is ruined, but the furniture is still in one piece, and the walls are mostly intact. They're lucky the place is still standing, and that no one was seriously hurt. It could have been a lot worse.

The Senator is alive, and so are the rest of them. And maybe his ego is a little bruised, but he'll survive. At least Esmé had shot the bounty hunter, and not him. Small mercies.

It's going to take a while to figure her out. And honestly, it probably won't be worth the effort. There are a million beautiful women in the galaxy, and there's no reason why he should get hung up on this one.

There's no reason at all.

Fives sighs and shakes his head.

"Yeah, well," he begins. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and looks over his shoulder towards the balcony. "I don't think there's gonna be a second date."

Taglist: @baddest-batchers @kindalonleystars @totallyunidentified @lovelytech9902 @frozenreptile @etod @puppetscenario @umekohiganbana @resistantecho @dindjarins1ut @tech-aficionado @aynavaano @burningnerdchild @ihatesaaand @lolwey @chocolatewastelandtriumph @hobbititties @mere-bear @thegreatpipster @lordofthenerds97 @notslaybabes @ayyyy-le-simp @mali-777 @megmegalodondon @dangraccoon @heavenseed76 @bunny7567 @lostqueenofegypt @anything-forourmoony @9902sgirl @jedi-dreea @salaminus @heidnspeak @gottalovehistory @mrcaptainrex @maniacalbooper @burningnerdchild @julli-bee @moonychicky @sonicrainbooms @captn-trex @webslinger-holland @marchingviolist @deerspringdreams @cw80831 @chaicilatte @somewhere-on-kamino @silly-starfish @floofyroro @veralii

All Bets Are Off

Word Count: 2.2k Pairing: platonic 501st x fem!reader Warnings: insinuation of gambling and bad portrayal of sabacc Summary: Jesse, Kix, Dogma, Tup, and Fives decide to play sabacc after finding you tinkering away alone. Dogma can't win, probably doesn't know how to, and you decide to lend a hand.

General Skywalker left much of his plans for the upcoming mission to the imagination of the 501st. All preparations that could be made with the few details given were already put into motion - leaving you and your squad with ample time to kill on the Resolute.

The General personally recruited you after your help decrypting Separatist communications during a mission on your home planet. You’d been hesitant at first, having no combat experience and the desire for a quiet life, but accepted regardless.

The men of the 501st battalion did their best to put you at ease and yet, even after a few weeks with them, you still sat in an adjustment period. Not that that stopped them from loitering around you in their downtime. You were their first taste of female attention that wasn’t Jedi, though, they’d never admit it. In return you were boundlessly entertained by the clones, though, you rarely showed it.

Having come upon you tinkering with a broadband transceiver, Jesse, Kix, Fives, Tup, and Dogma took up a game of sabacc to ‘keep you company’, as they put it. All the while, you snuck glances from the sidelines. Three rounds in and Jesse was on top with Dogma sourly coming in last.

“Admit it, Dogma, you don’t even know how to play.” Jesse laughed, triumphantly splaying out his cards on the table.

A chorus of groans rounded the group, accentuated by Dogma slamming a hand on the table. Quickly on his feet, Dogma jabbed an accusatory finger across the table. “I know how to play. You’re just getting lucky.” He curled his lip and harshly gestured to Tup who sat beside him. “I bet he isn’t even shuffling correctly!”

One corner of your lips tipped into a smirk. Dogma may have been wrong about Tup’s shuffling, but, at least for where you sat, it did seem luck fueled Jesse’s winning streak.

Tup swept his hands around the table, gathering the cards for another round. Ever the patient man, Tup only shook his head at his brother’s accusation. Kix, on the other hand, would never miss an opportunity to rile his tightly wound brother.

Smirking, the medic leaned over the table, tauntingly saying, “If you’re so sure, maybe you should deal next.” Tup smiled, nodded, and offered the deck to Dogma. His suggestion only further annoyed Dogma, who pointedly shoved Tup’s hand away.

As Tup started divvying out the cards, Kix continued, “And you’ll need a bigger tattoo to hide those tells, mate.” You paused your work solely to catch the predictable, red tint Dogma’s face took on.

“You’re one to talk,” Fives retorted with a chuckle, glancing at his first card and then smirking mischievously at Kix. “You couldn’t bluff your way out of a paper bag.”

“How do you-”

Jesse cut Kix short, “You pick up an extra card every time you think you’ve got a good hand.” The entire table murmured in humored agreement before settling into determined silence once the cards were dealt.

It was funny, you thought, how they pestered one another. They really were brothers at the core of it all.

Your hands remained still as you dialed in on the game. Initially, you drowned out their commotion during the first round. By the end of the second round, you were purposely eavesdropping - which might not have been the right word considering they’d stepped in on your work as opposed to the other way around. In the last round you’d started tracking who laid down what, correctly predicting Jesse’s win. You’d been counting their cards.

As the next round started you didn’t see the harm in possibly lending poor Dogma a little help. You were sure that Tup was right in Dogma’s knowledge of the game, but that didn’t mean he didn’t deserve a little boost.

Nonchalantly positioning yourself for a view of the whole table, you kept an eye on the cards going around. It seemed that Jesse’s streak might finally break, and fortune was turning in Dogma’s favor.

Confident the other men had equally as bad hands, or worse, than him, you nearly turned away until Dogma started reaching for the draw pile. Hoping to stop him, you purposely scraped your spanner into the device in hand. By chance, the noise stalled him enough to glance towards you.

In a subtle second, you gave a discouraging shake of your head. His eyes stayed on you, albeit with a suspicious glint, as he retracted his hand. Dogma was in no way subtle and his obtuse reaction, just like all of his other tells, was not lost on his squad. You were back to looking busy by the time heads turned your way.

The moment the men returned their attention to the game you followed suit. For reasons unknown to you, Dogma maintained a frustrated expression despite the fact that you knew he had the lowest count hand. At that point, you were certain - he had no clue what the point of the game was or what it took to win.

The round came to an end when Tup passed on his turn. It was Dogma’s best chance at winning and luckily Dogma did you the favor of looking your way without signal. You quickly mouthed ‘call’ before the others caught on.

Tup did lean back in search of Dogma’s distraction, surprised to find you spectating. A small smile was all it took for Tup to shrug off his suspicions.

“Call.” Dogma announced with more confidence than you’d expected.

The table erupted in mild laughter, with Kix nudging Jesse playfully. Jesse leaned forward, eyebrow raised skeptically. "You're bluffing."

"I second that," Kix chimed in. "No way I'm folding."

"Not a chance," Jesse added.

"And what keeps catching your eye?" Fives turned sharply, his suspicion fading as soon as he saw you. Leaning back with a relaxed grin, he draped an arm over the back of his chair. "Didn’t think you’d be interested in card games," he teased. “Or take you for a gambling woman.”

Catching the curious glances from the group, you shrugged lightly, your voice laced with feigned boredom, “Oh, I don’t gamble.” Setting aside the transceiver with the same small smile you gave Tup. “That’s for people who need luck.”

A round of “oohs” filtered through the group, each of the clones smirking to one another.

Fives’ head dipped, clearly amused by the jab. “That’s some big talk.” He nodded again to the table at this back. “Alright then, you tell us who’s going to win.”

You attempted a thoughtful frown but the edge you had on them wouldn’t let you stop smiling. “Well, I know it won’t be you.”

A sharp snort came from across the table. You and Fives peaked over at Dogma, who was finally showing some light heartedness. The smile Dogma finally wore made you feel even more confident in your interjecting. The man really needed to loosen up and you were glad to help.

Unbothered, Fives peered back at you then around the table at each of his brothers. “Not me, huh?” Slinking his arm back around he smoothly glanced at his cards once more and, with a casual flick of his wrist, exposed his hand.

Eager to see the results, you shoved out of your seat to stand at Fives’ shoulder. You were disappointed to see your prediction was a card off, but only by the suit, not the number. And, if you were right, Dogma still had the winning hand.

The others groaned and tossed their cards in. Jesse, visibly knocked down a peg, clicked his tongue and shoved his cards in Tup’s direction. The motion turned the cards face up and revealed a hand that lost to both Fives and Dogma.

You eyed the cards Tup gathered before looking over at Dogma. He had an iron grip on his two cards and an odd expression pinching his face. It was a mix between worry, confusion, and forced composure. Altogether it would be best described as outright discomfort.

Sighing, you relaxed with your head cocked to the side. Pointing over at him you nodded, “Go on Dogma,” you paused, shoring up the courage to join their ribbing. “Show them what it’s like to lose.”

Tup laughed heartily, stopped organizing the cards to give Dogma a sarcastic pat on the shoulder. “Yeah, c’mon Dogma. Show us.”

Instead of shoving Tup off, Dogma smacked his cards down in front of him. He kept the faces hidden beneath his hand for a suspenseful moment before unveiling his winning hand.

Dogma’s discomfort melted away as Tup’s sarcasm turned congratulatory while the others scoffed about Dogma’s luck.

In a show of disbelief, Jesse snapped his head in your direction. His tattoo was distorted by the severe pinching of his brows. “How’d you know he was going to win?”

Fives leaned in on his elbows, waving a dismissive hand. “Everyone gets a little lucky.” The dismissal bit into your pride, a slight you wouldn’t let pass.

Bringing your face to his level, you purred to Fives, “Like I said, I don’t need luck Corporal.” You mimicked Tup’s gentle pat to the shoulder as you straightened back out. “If you must know, it’s called ‘counting cards’.”

“You counted the cards?” Kix leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, and wearing an incredulous grin. “From over there?” He exchanged a shake of his head with Jesse beside him.

In a voice that was more impressed than incredulous Jesse said, “It does seem like a reach.”

“You’re just mad that you lost.” Dogma interjected, sending a reassuring nod your way. Out of his squad, he’d been the least personable with you up to that point. Not that his struggle with the softer touches of rapport building ever offended you, it just made the small display of kindness stand out more than it would coming from the others.

Unfortunately, his newfound endearance put you on the spot when he followed up by saying, “In fact, I bet she’d wipe the floor with you lot.”

Dogma wasn’t smiling at you as his brothers turned fully on you, but he was positively brimming with pure confidence in you. He was so much easier to win over than you’d expected and yet, for all he knew, you could’ve just gotten lucky. His borderline blind faith was concerning as it was flattering.

“Well…” Your voice trailed off as the weight of their expectant smiles settled in.

Fives shifted completely around in his chair, soaking up the awkward twinge in your smile. “I’ll take that bet.”

Something about the way his eyebrow quirked up at you in challenge made your stomach flip. For the sake of your sanity you hoped it was born from friendly competition as opposed to charm.

Sucking on a tooth, you gave it one last thought and rolled your eyes. “If you want to go broke that badly, I won’t say no.”

Your compliance, reluctant as you tried to make it seem, roused another round of cheering from the men. Fives and Jesse gladly scooted apart, making way as you drug a chair over.

While you settled in, Tup chuckled as he began shuffling the cards, “If we’d known you liked sabacc, we’d have made you join ages ago.”

Brushing off nonexistent dust from your sleeve you replied, “If I’d known you were this easy to beat I’d have joined ages ago.” Earning their jovial reactions was weirdly satisfying and made you a little annoyed you hadn’t warmed up sooner.

“Alright, alright. Enough chatter.” Fives said in a warm tone. He sat close enough that he only had to lean over slightly to bump into you. “Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is, Shorty.”

Your face heated a bit, neck nearly snapping as you looked up at him. Jesse’s laugh cut you off as you tried to refute the moniker. You weren’t quick enough in turning on Jesse before Kix piped up.

“You are shorter than, well, all of us.”

Even Dogma seemed amused by their joking with you. For him, it probably felt nice for the center of the joking to just not be him for a while. And… it didn’t feel bad either to get the same treatment as they all did.

Despite scoffing to yourself, there was no hiding your enjoyment. A feeling had been bubbling in you through the entire interaction and, without warning, you started laughing loudly and genuinely. Unbeknownst to you, as eager as you were to keep them laughing, seeing your real smile for the first time made the 501st boys just as determined to keep you smiling.

“I can’t remember the last time I laughed like this.” You mumbled as the laughter subsided.

“Ahh, stick with us and I’ll bet you’ll be sick of it.” Tup said, earning an agreeable mumble from the rest of his brothers.

You shrugged, unconvinced. “I’ll take that bet.”

A Mother's Lullaby

501st & Jedi!Fem!Reader

Summary: After returning home from a long campaign, you and your soldiers find it difficult to fall asleep. Echo has a bad dream which starts a chain reaction of clones entering your room looking for a different place to sleep for the night.

Pairing: 501st & Jedi!Fem!Reader

Characters: Rex, Fives, Echo, Jesse, Hardcase, Tup, Kix, Dogma

Tags & Warnings: platonic clone cuddles, snuggles, and kisses, smidge of angst, comfort, fluff

Word Count: 3k

Author’s Note: I came up with this one from a dream I had. All gestures are 100% platonic. The lullaby the reader sings can be found here. Honestly, these boys need all the cuddles, snuggles, and love they can get. As always, please enjoy! 💚

After being away for several rotations on a long campaign with the 501st, you have finally made it back home to Coruscant. You leave your weary troops in the barracks and head towards your chambers to clean up and get some rest. You enjoy your first warm meal in what feels like forever and hop in the shower to wash the grime off your skin. You let the hot water caress your body as you stand underneath its invigorating spray, never wanting to leave the warmth.

You finish your shower, slip on your night clothes, and crawl into your bed. You nestle under the covers and take a deep breath, letting the familiar scents of your room fill your senses. There’s nothing quite like sleeping in one’s own bed. At last, you can get some good sleep. Sleep during campaigns is always a hit or miss and never the top priority, but when you’re here, when you’re home, you can sleep comfortably knowing no one is trying to end your life or the life of your men.

However, tonight you endlessly toss and turn in your bed. You're exhausted, you know it, you can feel it. You want to sleep desperately, but something is keeping you awake. You continue to toss and turn, but slumber seems to escape you. You sigh and stare up at the ceiling in defeat. So much for a good night's rest. After all those long nights on the hard ground with blaster and cannon fire, you wish for nothing more than to sleep.

Unexpectedly, you’re pulled out of your thoughts by a presence entering your room. It’s too dark to see anything, but through the force, you can see exactly who it is. “Echo?” you ask while sitting up against your pillow.

“Ah, sorry to wake you general,” Echo answers while putting an awkward hand on his neck.

“I wasn’t asleep,” you admit with a sigh as you rub your forehead. “Are you having trouble sleeping too?”

“I…” Echo begins to answer, but hesitates, unsure of how to say what he wants to say. “I had a bad dream.”

You cock your head to the side and give him a sympathetic smile. “Dreams are only dreams, Echo. They can’t hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Echo agrees half-heartedly. “I know.”

You sense he has something else to say, but he is too nervous to ask you. “Is there something else you want, Echo?” you ask to try and get him to tell you. “You know you can talk to me about anything.”

Echo opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it. He doesn’t want to step out of bounds with you as his general, but he also doesn’t want to go back to the barracks. Finally, he musters the courage and asks. “Can I sleep here tonight?”

You’re initially taken aback by the request, but your heart softens towards the tired clone. The nightmares that plague him must be horrific if he wants to sleep with his general. You think about it for a moment, but decide that it won’t hurt to let him stay the night with you. You pat the empty portion of the bed to the right of you to show him your approval. “Come here.”

Still a little wary of the idea, Echo meanders his way over to the bed and crawls from the base up to where you are. You stretch out your arm and invite him to rest his head on your chest. He obliges with a little hesitancy and you gently drape your arm over his side and back. You can feel every ounce of tension in his body escape at your touch. He breathes deeply and lets out a relaxed sigh, knowing nothing can hurt him now.

You smile at the clone clinging to you and run your fingers through his hair. As a Jedi, you’re not allowed to have attachments, but there’s nothing in the code that says you can’t show compassion. These clones. They’re children, stuck in adult bodies, fighting a war that they never asked for. They never asked to be created. They never asked to be expendable. They never asked to be slaughtered. The least you can do is to offer them some sort of comfort.

As you settle in with Echo and to try to get some rest, you sense another presence come into your room. Perhaps you should keep your room locked from now on. As the figure enters your dark room, you can see through the force that its Fives. “Looking for Echo?” you ask knowingly.

“Uh, yeah,” Fives answers with a jolt of surprise. “How’d you know?”

“The domino twins will always be inseparable,” you chuckle softly. “Where one goes, the other usually follows.”

“I didn’t think we were that predictable,” Fives rolls his eyes.

“Let’s just say that it doesn’t take a force wielder to know your thoughts,” you explain with a smile. “Would you like to join your brother?”

“I can’t sleep well without him nearby,” Fives admits as he crawls over the base of the bed and scooches next to Echo.

“Better?” you ask while looking over at him.

“Much better,” Fives answers as he nuzzles into the blankets.

You look down at both the clones now sleeping in your bed and you smile. You never thought something like this would occur, but here you are. It’s not that you don’t want them here, but you do feel a weird sense of maternal instinct as they lay there in your presence. Clearly they feel safe with you, but you’re not sure why. Other than being their General, leading them into battle, force healing their wounds, and giving them pep-talks, you’re not sure why they are attached to you.

Your thoughts are once again interrupted by a figure entering your room. You let out a slightly exasperated sigh when you realize it is yet another clone tip-toeing his way into your bedroom. “Looking for something, Jesse?” you ask the sneaking clone.

Caught by surprise, Jesse stumbles back into the wall. “Uh, well, you see,” he begins to explain in earnest. “Echo and Fives aren’t in their bunks, and they’re usually up to no good when they’re together, so I went looking for them.”

“Well, you found them,” you point out in a hushed tone. “They’re right here, sleeping with me.”

Jesse pauses as he thinks about the situation before him. “Can…” he begins to ask. “Can I sleep here too?”

“I don’t see why not,” you answer. Your bed is definitely big enough, but you’re still not sure why all these clones want to sleep in your room. They have the barracks and bunks of their own, and they sleep with all their brothers. It is odd to you, but nevertheless, you let him climb into bed with you, Echo, and Fives. He crawls over the end of the bed and situates himself on the left side of the bed, across from the others. Close, but not close enough to touch you. You smile at his reservation.

As you begin to nod off, you’re pulled awake by yet another disturbance in your room. You wonder if you’re ever going to get any sleep at this rate. You look up at the figure standing across from the bed and with a sigh you ask them what they want. “What do you need Hardcase?”

“Oh, you knew it was me, huh?” Hardcase asks with a little embarrassment.

“You have a very distinct pattern in the force,” you answer with a small yawn.

“Really?” he questions with great interest. “I do?”

“Technically, you all do,” you explain further. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Jesse, Echo, and Fives aren’t in their bunks,” Hardcase begins to explain. “I thought they went to the refresher, but when they didn’t come back, I got worried.”

You smile at him and his concern for his brothers. “Don’t worry,” you soothe. “They’re right here with me.”

“What?” he questions with reproach. “They get to sleep with you? No fair!”

“Would you like to sleep here too?” you propose, thinking one more clone wouldn’t hurt.

“Really?” he asks with excitement. “Can I?”

“Only if you keep your voice down,” you hush as you feel Echo stir under your arm.

“Oh,” he quickly whispers. “Right. Gotcha. I’ll be quiet.”

Hardcase crawls into bed next to Jesse and Jesse wraps an arm around his brother to make sure he feels included. You look around at the group of clones covering your bed and let out a small chuckle. You’re not sure how one turned into four, but there’s no going back now. You can only hope that no more wayward clones will show up in your bedroom looking for a different place to sleep or their missing brothers.

However, your thoughts betray you as you sense Kix’s force presence entering your room. Should have seen that one coming. “If you’re looking for Echo, Fives, Jesse, or Hardcase, they’re here with me,” you announce, deciding to jump to the chase.

“You sound exhausted,” Kix jests as he folds his arms. “I can make them leave, you know.”

“It’s fine,” you answer while running your fingers through Echo’s hair. You remind yourself why you began this little clone sleepover in the first place and smile softly. “Sometimes, we just need each other.”

“Amen to that,” Kix agrees. “You got room for one more?”

“Of course,” you smile at the medic. “Grab a spot wherever you can find one.”

Kix crawls over Jesse and Hardcase, kicking them playfully in the process, and flops himself across from you near the edge of the bed. He grabs a fistful of covers and nuzzles them softly. You smile wide at his childish movements. They really are just children. Children who had their childhoods stolen from them. You can’t quite reach Kix, but if you could, you would rub his back to lull him to sleep. Maker knows medics need their sleep.

No sooner does Kix settle in, do you feel another force presence enter the room. This one is a little more cautious, as if he’s contemplating that he doesn’t belong. You feel his hesitation and call out to him. “Dogma. You can come in.”

“General,” he acknowledges as he steps closer. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding, Dogma,” you reassure the hesitant clone.

“Can…” Dogma begins, still feeling like he’s not allowed to ask for this. “Can I sleep here too?”

Your heart softens at his innocent and heartfelt plea, and you smile at him. “Yes, Dogma. You’re welcome here too.”

He smiles back and crawls across the edge of the bed and nestles neatly just below Echo and Fives. You wonder about Dogma sometimes, because he keeps to himself a lot and has trouble opening up to others. You feel great reservation from him, even on the battlefield. But you’ve heard from the others that his previous general was abusive and uncaring. It breaks your heart that anyone could be so malicious towards such beautiful souls. They didn’t deserve that.

Suddenly, you feel an intense presence of sadness and fear enter your room. Your heart begins to race as the force scrunches around you. You want to jolt up out of bed, but you don’t want to disturb your sleeping clones. As the force becomes less distorted, you can finally see who it is. “Tup?” you ask with concern. “Are you okay? You scared me.”

“They left me alone,” Tup says through a shaky breath while clenching his fists. “I don’t want to be alone.”

The pain in his voice breaks your heart. Every ounce of maternal instinct in you tells you to get up and hug this sad clone until all his pain is gone, but you can’t get up at the moment, not with all these sleeping clones surrounding your every side. Instead you invite him to come join you by patting the open real estate next to your left side. “Come here, Tup.”

He rushes over to the bedside and crawls over Kix to get to your side. You open your free arm and let him rest his head on your chest. You can feel a little shake in his body so you rub his back and place your head atop his. “Shhh. It’s alright,” you soothe. “I’ve got you. Your brothers are right here with you.” You feel the force settle around him and his breathing becomes soft.

“I wish I had a mother,” Tup admits into your chest.

You're surprised by the statement, but it’s not a completely unfounded thought. The clones are test-tube babies. Copies from an original source, with no mothers to speak of. Perhaps that is why they feel safe with you. Perhaps, because you are a woman, they feel a certain level of maternal attachment to you. That’s why they feel safe. That’s why they want to sleep here with you. That’s why they relax in your presence and melt under your touch. They just want a mother.

“What’s it like having a mother?” Tup asks out of curiosity.

“I don’t really remember mine to be honest,” you answer. “I was taken from her at a young age to be trained as a Jedi.”

“Oh,” Tup answers sadly.

“But,” you continue. “I do remember that she was warm and kind. She had a good heart and would sing me lullabies to go to sleep.”

“Lullabies?” Tup wonders at the strange word.

“Yes,” you explain in a hushed tone. “Mothers sing them to their children to help them go to sleep.”

“Would you sing us a lullaby?” Tup asks as he nuzzles further into you.

You’re shocked at the question. No one has ever asked you to sing, let alone sing a lullaby. “Well, I don’t know...” you hesitate.

You feel Echo tug gently at your hem and whispers. “Please?”

There were several more ‘pleases’ and ‘mhms’ coming from the lumps on your bed. You look around at the seven sleepy clones and wonder how you got yourself into this predicament. But, their innocence captures your heart and you feel a tender fondness for their simple request. How hard could it be to sing them a lullaby? You close your eyes and think back to when you were still with your mother and try to remember the words and the tune she sang to you.

Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby

Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay

And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow

Bless you with love for the road that you go

May you sail far to the far fields of fortune

With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet

And may you need never to banish misfortune

May you find kindness in all that you meet

May there always be angels to watch over you

To guide you each step of the way

To guard you and keep you safe from all harm

Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

May you bring love and may you bring happiness

Be loved in return to the end of your days

Now fall off to sleep, I'm not meaning to keep you

I'll just sit for a while and sing loo-li, lai-lay

May there always be angels to watch over you

To guide you each step of the way

To guard you and keep you safe from all harm

Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

You finish the lullaby as tears form in the corner of your eyes. The words of the song unlocked the sweet memories of your mother from so long ago. She was a strong and loving woman, and even though you don’t remember her face, you could feel her embrace you through the force as the lyrics of her soothing lullaby escaped your lips. Such a soft and simple song, but so full of love, care, and comfort.

You look around lovingly at the clones sleeping softly in your bed and smile. Your heart is full. They’re all sleeping peacefully, probably for the first time in a long while. But your happy thoughts are pierced with poison as you remember why they exist. The bloody war. The war that no one asked for. The war they lay their lives down for. Not all of them may come back, but for now, yes, for now they are safe here with you.

You look up as you sense the final presence you knew would show up eventually. “Captain,” you whisper, trying not to wake the clones. Rex came into the bedroom while you were singing the lullaby and leaned against the wall while he waited for you to finish.

“I was wondering where my men went,” Rex chuckles while looking at his sleeping soldiers spread out across your bed.

“They needed a little mothering tonight,” you say as you leave a gentle kiss on Echo’s head.

Rex smiles. “I can see that.”

“Will you join them?” you ask. “There’s room for one more.”

Without much convincing, Rex pushes himself off the wall and crawls onto the foot of the bed. He lays sideways at the edge, positioning himself to guard over his men. Rex is a great leader and a great Captain. He cares deeply for each of his men and puts their safety above his own. It’s just like him to take the most vulnerable and uncomfortable position so his men can relax and feel covered under his dutiful watch. You smile fondly at their brotherly bond.

You let out a small sigh and lean over to the left to leave a small kiss on Tup’s head. You would kiss them all goodnight, but the rest are too far out of your reach. “Codladh sámh, my little ones,” You whisper while leaning your head back against the pillow to finally let yourself fall asleep. “Dream of a life far away from this one.”

Masterlist

A03

Tag List: @nahoney22

Join my taglist HERE

Tip me a tea on Ko-fi HERE

180 notes View Post

heidnspeak

10 months ago

Galactic Badassery #arc trooper echo

48 notes View Post

heidnspeak

4 months ago

The prologue, paving the way for what I feel…know…will be a wholehearted adventure. Thank you @legacygirlingreen for this undertaking along with @leenathegreengirl. #this is already amazing #hooked on Perdita and Wolffe #already cleaning my specs waiting for more

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence.

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders.

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

“Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar. His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita.

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue.

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training.

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause.

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall.

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)

A Quick Cuddle - Part 1 - Wrecker

Hi all! Since I really needed some comfort (and it seems like many others need it right now too) this will be my first post for Echo-vember. I've decided to post one Echo-focused fic each week of November revolving around the first time Echo hugs each of the batch. If you want to be tagged when I post these fics let me know <3

Thank you @renton6echo for coming up with the concept of Echo-vember. I'm excited for it <3

Ao3 Link

Part 2 - Tech - Tumblr Link & Ao3 Link

Part 3 - Hunter - Tumblr Link & Ao3 Link

Part 4 - Crosshair - Tumblr Link & Ao3 Link

Summary: The first time Echo hugs Wrecker

Word Count: 1,021

Their mission had gone off without a hitch. It was the first of many, Echo hoped, as they boarded the Marauder to embark on whatever was next for the group. He could barely keep up with how fast everything was moving. One mission after another, no planet longer than a few days, so much to learn he was racing just not to fall behind. Rest days were far and few between. He slept even less with Clones Force 99 than he did when he was a 501st ARC. Even when he did it was always surrounded by people just as he liked it, constantly listening to the sounds of snores and chatter and even breathing. That was okay with Echo. He didn’t have too much time to think in between rushing into battle and his new squad was about as chaotic as he expected. They were nearly yelling over each other in the excited rush that followed their mission. It was swift, simple, but they’d run into the need for an explosion and that got all of their blood pumping. Who would’ve thought, the squad of excitable commandos liked when things went boom. He was busy smiling at them, ignoring the need to make a plan, set a path, move on, while they pushed each other around and chattered.

“That was awesome!” Wrecker whooped as he whipped his helmet off, letting it clatter to the floor. A wide smile stretched across his face, skin flushed with excitement. He shoved Echo’s shoulder. “Who knew you could do something like that?!” Right. Echo tried to bite back the grin but he was fighting a losing battle. He’d been on top of a walker, helping plant explosives while the rest of them distracted enemies for him and the big guy. Apparently using his grappling hook to swing off the side of it, wrapping its legs together, and tucking into a roll as he dismounted wasn’t just a common method everyone used. When he’d knocked the walker over he yelled at Wrecker to run, close enough that their backs heated while the explosion went off behind them. Echo wasn’t sure why it was particularly exciting but it may have been the domino effect of explosions that detonated throughout the battlefield that made them all so giddy.

Something about fire. It just really made all of them bouncier.

Echo shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “Had to learn something from all of that ARC training.” It was the first time he’d truly felt confident with the batch. They’d only known each other for a few weeks, spent even less time in the field, and he’d fumbled a few plays - understandable - but he’d let it hurt his ego a bit too much. All those racing thoughts and unease had wriggled its way into his mind. A win was nice. It reminded him who he was. A time when they thought he fit in was even better. The batch was so tight he started to think infiltrating their ranks was impossible.

Maybe he just hadn’t given them enough time.

Wrecker laughed - bright and jovial - nudging Echo again, this time hard enough that he bumped into Hunter who steadied him with a grin. “You can say that again! We make a great team.” In a move that almost knocked all the air out of his lungs Wrecker swept his arms around Echo’s waist, lifting him up into the air. The shock came first along with a surprised noise from the back of his throat - not a squeak, thank you very much - as the big guy hugged him. His feet dangled in the air while Wrecker swayed him back and forth.

This was the first time any of them had hugged him. For a brief moment it was like being doused in freezing cold water but the warmth radiating off of Wrecker made every bone in his body relax. Hugs certainly hadn’t been at the top of his list of priorities - he hadn’t really thought about it - but he found himself smiling regardless. Wrecker was a tactile guy, mostly shoving and throwing his arm around the others, but hugs weren’t out of the question. Echo just hadn’t realized that Wrecker would ever want to hug him with his metal and attitude and newness to the squad so he’d not yet attempted to get physically closer to any of them yet. At least Wrecker was the easiest to befriend, so quick to invite Echo to join him in their down time and offer him space. It felt nice to be treated like a part of things. He couldn’t really hug him back, not with his arms pinned to the side as they were, but he did chuckle, awkwardly patting Wrecker’s side.

“Any time, big guy. Maybe next time we can make it a few more yards away from the explosion before it goes off.” The light scold was taken lightheartedly with a laugh. Wrecker squeezed him tight one last time then put him down, holding onto his shoulder to keep him steady while he regained his footing. The smile stuck to his face so bad he almost had to hide it behind his hand. Something as simple as a hug and he was taken down, reduced to silence, watching dutifully as the rest of them kept getting under each other's skin. Lucky was a word he would use, he supposed. It may seem simple but the worry that his new squad wouldn’t feel comfortable enough to be tactile with him was slowly ebbing away, flickering to the back of his mind even for the moment. His hand itched to do the same things the rest of them seemed so comfortable with - shoving, ruffling hair, hugs - but he wasn’t quite there yet. Wasn’t ready to be the initiator for tactile forms of affection. Wrecker had opened the door, allowed in some form of familiarity he hadn’t quite realized he missed so much. There was still learning, sure, but hope bloomed in his chest at the thought that this could be more than a squad, more than a team, but something closer to his heart altogether.

46 notes View Post