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sceletaflores · 11 months ago

Text

slippery when wet!

pairing: patrick zweig x fem!reader

summary: “so who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank. a shocked laugh bursts from your lips. “what?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “me or art? don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than i do.”

—or: patrick puts you in your place three months later.

word count: 4.3k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, p in v, fighting as foreplay, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it y’all!), rough sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (m!receiving), fingering...kinda (fem!receiving), very light spanking, choking, degradation, creampie, throat fucking, mean!reader my beloved, art donaldson is there in spirit, patrick is gay for art, porn with a little plot, no use of y/n.

author’s note: no one can stop me from writing rough sex patrick fics. it's all i think about 24/7, and you guys are no help but like i love it so it's fine. i'm here to serve you and this is clearly what you want so who am i to deny you that? thank you to the beautiful anon who requested this, i hope you don't mind that i changed it from a locker room scene to a bathroom scene but that was just calling to me hehe. okay bye! hope you love it! xoxo mwah.

psst! tftw series masterlist!

You’ve been on the court for at least an hour and a half, running drills and trying to sweat out all of your stress. You were the only one in the building, but it was always less busy during finals week. Most people were camped out in their dorms cramming for fifty question tests or four part lab practicals.

Art politely declined your invite, too busy studying for his business final on Monday. So you rented a tennis machine and worked on your backhand that way. It was a nice distraction, emptying your head enough that all the anxiety of finals started to melt away as you slid into a steady rhythm with the machine.

The door bangs open with a loud creak behind you, bursting the little bubble of tranquility surrounding you. The back of your head burns with the unmistakable feeling of someone glaring at you.

You hear him before you see him, a loud call of your name followed by heavy footsteps quickly coming towards you. The sound of his voice immediately grates on your nerves, all angry and shouty. You choose to ignore it, focusing on hitting each new ball the machine spits out.

It may have been a couple months since you’ve seen Patrick, but you’d always recognize the familiar way his voice wraps around each syllable in your name.

Three months, to be exact. It’s been three months since your big fight over the phone with Patrick. You blocked his number right after you hung up, so you haven’t spoken to him in just as long. He never tried to reach out, never messaged you on AOL or Facebook. The petty fuck actually went out of his way to unfriend you on both, so you knew he wasn’t exactly torn up about your abrupt split.

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” Patrick shouts over the loud humming, sounding closer to you than he was before. You pointedly keep ignoring him, eyes fixed stubbornly on the machine. “You deaf or something?” he mocks, stepping up so you can see him in your peripheral vision. You say nothing, swinging your racket harder with each hit.

Patrick scoffs, stomping over to the machine and slamming his hand over the stop button. It makes a loud beeping sound, before shutting off completely. “Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking baby.” you groan, throwing your head back in annoyance. When you finally turn to glare at him, you’re shocked at the state he’s in.

Patrick’s dressed in a tank and the almost too short shorts he’d usually wear to a match, and he’s dripping sweat. Curly black hair plastered to his forehead with it, his cheeks red and blotchy like he’d been in the sun. You raise your brow, looking at him with a confused expression on your face. “Where the hell did you even come from? How did you know I was here?”

He walks back over to you, hands balled into fists by his side. “I was at a tournament in Mountain View,” he explains, jerking his head in the vague direction he came from, ”it was so close I thought it’d be wrong of me to not stop by and check up on you.”

You laugh, nodding your head lightly. “Okay, so you flunked out of another tournament and hunted me down like a creepy stalker to what? Yell at me some more? Call me a cunt again?” you step closer, lightly swishing your racket through the air dismissively. “I’m not fucking interested in whatever it is you have to say Patrick, we’re over.”

He smirks but you can see the way his jaw clenches, ticking in anger. “But you’re interested in what Art has to say?”

There it is. You really should have known it would all come back to this eventually.

You sigh, casting your eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “What’s your point?”

Patrick takes a step closer. “My point is that you’re not fucking stupid, and Art can’t lie to save his goddamn life. You knew exactly what he was doing.” His tone is accusatory, his brows pinched together hard enough to crease his skin.

Your heart beat picks up in your chest, anger beginning to bubble up inside you. “I didn’t need Art’s help to realize that you’re an arrogant piece of shit and a gigantic waste of my time, you made it easy enough to pick up on all by yourself.”

Patrick laughs, loud and abrasive. “No, you just didn’t care.” he states darkly, shaking his head back and forth a few times. You can feel a few drops of sweat fling from his hair to land on the bare skin of your shoulders as he does. “You’re so easy that you’d spread your legs from him to stroke your own ego. You’re only playing into his whole kicked puppy charade to justify acting like a fucking whore, ‘Poor Art, he’s so sad and pathetic, I’ll let him fuck my slutty pussy to help his raise his self esteem!’.” He mocks, voice pitched up in an exaggerated impression of you.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your racket, knuckles turning white with it. You feel hot all over, anger simmering under your sweaty skin. “You’re seriously trying to lecture me about egos? This has nothing to do with Art! This is about you being a bratty little rich boy who’s never been told ‘no’ before so you can’t handle rejection. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

Patrick nostrils flare, brows pinching together in anger. “Art has nothing to do with this, really? You’re delusional if you actually think that he’s just this saint among men or some shit. He’s not, he’s a fucking snake.”

“Trust me, Art doesn’t have to be a saint to be better than you.” you sneer, voice sharp and unwavering. Your hands are shaking, blind rage racking through your body like thunder. “The only redeeming quality you’ll ever have is dangling between your legs so you better get used to this, because sooner or later everyone will leave you once they see past all your bullshit and realize that you’re nothing more than a worthless loser.”

Patrick’s jaw works furiously, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. You think something like hurt flashes through his eyes, but only for a second. It's gone just as fast, replaced by a mocking smirk that stretches over his lips slowly. He crosses his arms in front of him, shamelessly raking his eyes over your body. You can practically see the gears turning in his head.

“So who fucks better?” he asks bluntly, a bead of sweat dripping down the column of his throat and into the neck of his tank.

A shocked laugh bursts from your lips before you can stop it. “What?” you ask, arms dropping to your sides limply. The completely one-eighty of his mood sends your head reeling.

Patrick takes another step closer, invading your personal space. “Who fucks better?” he repeats slowly, leaning down to meet your eye. “Me or Art? Don’t fucking lie to me and tell me that prissy farmer boy makes you come harder than I do.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “God, everything is always a dick measuring contest with you. It’s so pathetic like, seriously–”

“Answer the question.” Patrick demands, cutting you off sharply. He’s practically looming over you now, so close that you can smell him. That natural, manly, musky scent he always has after a game that drives you fucking crazy.

It reminds you of when he’d come back to your dorm fresh off a match, still in the same clothes and not showered. Pumped full of adrenaline and so pent up, needing something to take his energy out on. You were always that something. He’d fuck your mouth like he’d fuck your pussy, like it was just another hole for him drain his balls into. You’d be face down in his crotch for what seemed like hours, right where his smell was the strongest. Forced to breathe it in so deeply you’d feel high off it, your brain turned to mush every time.

Heat swirls deep in your stomach, you haven’t been this close to Patrick in what seems like forever. You kind of forgot how much he affects you, especially like this. The sex was always better when you’d fight before.

“You’re a child.”

“You still haven’t answered the question.”

You huff, narrowing your eyes at him. There’s a sort of crazed look on his face, his pupils blown out and dark. It makes you pause, it’s the look you’d get right before he’d pounce on you. You’ve seen it enough times to know that something is different about it. He looks needier, more hungry.

It has some of your anger subsiding, twisted amusement swiftly taking its place. If Patrick wants to ambush you like this, after weeks of radio silence, you might as well use it as a chance to fuck with him.

You smirk, cocking your head to the side slightly. “Art,” you say slowly, taking a small step towards Patrick, “is a better fuck than you ever were.”

Patrick pouts like an honest to God child, sticking out his bottom lip in indignation. “I told you not to lie–”

“I’m not lying,” you say innocently, voice dropping down to a whisper as you lean in even closer. You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks, darker than usual thanks to all the sun he’s been getting. “Last night he ate me out for hours, made me squirt all over his fucking tongue.”

For the first time since you’ve met him, Patrick Zweig is shocked into silence. His eyes darken, you can’t even see the green anymore, the solid black of his pupils swallowing it entirely. “Bullshit,” he says quietly, clipped and skeptical. His breath fans hotly over your lips, it makes your spine start to tingle.

You smile sweetly, giving a small shrug of your shoulders. “I’ll send you the video.”

Patrick physically reels back, blinking slowly with the realization of what you just said. His lips barely part in surprise, pink and enticing. You revel in it, smirking at him smugly. His eyes flit across your face like he’s trying to figure out if you’re lying or not. You stare back at him unrelenting, all the proof you need is sitting in the video gallery of your pink motorola razr.

Patrick swallows hard, you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with it. He shifts his lower body subtly, but you’re too close to not notice it. Your eyes immediately dart down, and you’re almost giddy at what you find.

He’s hard, the fabric of his shorts stretched over the length of his dick obscenely. You can see the faint outline of the tip pressing against the seam, a wet patch seeping through the gray material around it.

“Oh my god, you’re actually getting off on this!” you laugh wickedly, eyes glued to the lewd tent of his dick. “You’re calling me a whore when you’re the one getting wet just thinking about your best friend's mouth on my pussy. That’s fucking pathetic even for you, Ricky.”

Patrick is silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he stares you down so intensely you can almost feel the heavy weight of his eyes as they bore into you.

It happens in less than a second, Patrick closing the distance between you and taking your arm in his strong hand so he can force you in the direction of the showers. His grip is tight on your bicep, fingers meanly digging into your skin and forcing you to walk with him. You put up a fight, kicking and scratching but he’s stronger than you. Not letting your slaps to his chest or nails sinking into his arm deter him from dragging you across the court.

“Let me go asshole!” you snap, trying in vain to yank your arm out of his grip while you stumble over your own feet. “You’re such a fucking psycho!” Patrick ignores you, bursting into the men's showers and marching you into the first stall. He drags you inside, whirling you around to shove your back against the door of it roughly. It knocks the wind out of you for a second, the lock digs into your back hard enough to hurt.

“Art doesn’t have any fucking idea how to deal with a bitch like you.” he grates, fisting a handful of your harshly. “He’s too soft. Too busy letting you lead him around by his dick to try putting you in your fucking place.”

The sting of your scalp only adds to the warmth pulsing in your pussy, sticky arousal dripping wet in your panties. You meet his eyes, all the fire and want swirling in them mirror your own. “Art has a bigger dick than you bitch.” You spit, standing on your tiptoes to lessen the distance of him tugging on your hair. It’s a low blow, immature and basic but you don’t care.

Patrick just hum noncommittally, roughly hooking his fingers into your cheeks and dragging you forward until the tip of your nose is touching his. “Then your throat is still nice and stretched out for me.”

He drops his hands to your shoulders, forcing you onto your knees. You hit the ground with a heavy thud, a dull ache blooms in your knees at the force of it. “Fuck,” you hiss, pulling back instinctively but the hard plastic of the shower door pressing onto the back of your head keeps you pinned in place. Your hands fly up to his legs to try and push him away.

Patrick grips your hair tight, tipping your face up to look at him. You have a perfect view of him pushing his shorts down, letting his hard dick slip out as the fabric stretches taught across his thick thighs. “Open your mouth,” he demands, yanking your head to the side meanly.

“Fuck you,” you snarl, teeth bared in anger as you fight to stand up. Patrick’s strong hand on your shoulder keeps you down while the other starts to idly stroke his dick. He’s just as big as you remember, thick and hard only a few inches away from your face.

The tip all red and weepy when he pulls his foreskin back on each tug, a thick vein running up the side that you want to trace with your tongue.

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he coos softly, rubbing his leaking tip across your bottom lip a couple times, smearing his pre-come around your mouth like lip gloss. “We both know you love it.”

He’s so cocky, so sure of himself that you want to keep denying him. But he’s also right, you can feel your resolve slowly start to crack when he pushes the head between your parted lips. The familiar heady taste of him oozing onto your tongue has you sighing contently, jaw relaxing the tiniest bit almost like a reflex.

The second you give Patrick an inch and he’ll take a mile.

“There we go,” he mutters sweetly, pulling back slightly and then thrusting forward until your nose is buried in the short curls at the base.

Your whole body tenses, throat constricting over the length of his dick as your fist his shorts in your hands. As quickly as he thrust in, he pulls out, letting you sharply gasp for air before it’s back and pressing insistently on your tongue. You let him in, forcing your throat to relax as he slides forward to press his hips into your face.

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he bites out, thrusting down your throat roughly. “Pussy’s so greedy it jumped on the next dick that perked up around it.”

You could only whine around Patrick’s dick, mouth too full to do anything but try and work your tongue over the throbbing length of him.

Your throat burns, spit flowing down your chin messily along with his pre-come still steadily leaking from the hot tip of his dick.

His big hands have an iron grip on either side of your head, his balls slap against your chin as he thrusts over and over and over. The back of your skull throbs, knocking into the stall with each pump of his hips.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping his forehead down to the stall with a small thunk. “You look so good like this,” he breathes, looking down at you through half-lidded eyes, “so fucking pretty with my dick down your throat to shut you up.”

Your pussy aches, so empty that you want to shove your hand down your shorts and stuff yourself full of your own fingers to dull the need. Your thighs glide together slickly, the wetness of your arousal soaking through your clothes.

It gets harder to breathe. Your choked off, spluttering gags start loudly echoing off the tile walls. Your hand slaps Patrick’s thigh a few times, he thrusts hard once more before he finally pulls back, smearing spit all over your tongue and out of your mouth.

“God, that was good baby.” he praises, slapping his dick against your right cheek lewdly. “As much as I want to pump this load down your throat,” he says casually, stroking his spit slick dick lazily, ”I want it in your pussy more.”

“I fucking hate you,” you growl weakly, voice absolutley wrecked. The tears sitting in your waterline blur your vision, you blink them away to see Patrick’s smug smile beaming down at you.

“Then tell me to stop,” he shrugs, tilting his head to the side condescendingly. You glare up at him, but you don’t say anything. He snorts, brow raising in amusement. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He shoves his shorts the rest of the way down, stepping out of them and hauling you up to your feet. You’re still desperately trying to catch your breath, chest heaving as you cough and gasp.

Patrick rips your shirt over your head, flinging it over the stall along with his own. He turns you by your shoulder, pushing you against the wall as he yanks the shower handle to start the stream.

Water rains down around you, shockingly cold for a few seconds before it finally starts to warm up. Patrick makes quick work of your shorts and panties, yanking them down your legs and off your feet, tossing them in the corner of the stall with a wet thwack.

He kicks your feet further apart, one hand on your shoulder and the other lining his hard dick up with your tight hole, letting the leaking tip press into you with the smallest amount of pressure.

“I know you missed my dick, slut,” he says, bringing his hand down on your ass quickly, kneading the stinging skin roughly. “Art could be the best fuck in the world, he still can’t give it to you like I can.” He pops the head in, groaning quietly before he bullies his thick dick the rest of the way into you.

Your hole shakes around him. Patick is right. Patrick is always right, but you’d never tell him that. You wanted this. You missed this. The burn of Patrick’s dick forcing you open, stretching you so wide your toes curl. Him not giving you even a second to react before he’s pulling back and pounding into you brutally.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut at the sharp sting. You can tell through the haze of you brain that this won’t take long at all, the both of you already so worked up from Patrick fucking your throat. His right hand drops from your shoulder to your hip while his left slides up your torso, sliding along your skin to wrap around the column of your throat firmly. You keen loudly, throwing your head back to give him more room.

“I taught him how to use that fucking dick,” he goads into your ear, grip tightening on your throat. “Did he tell you about that? Huh?” He takes your earlobe between your teeth, biting hard enough to make you squeal into the wall.

The tile digs into your cheek, roughly scraping against your skin every time Patrick fucks back into you.

You’re hovering over the edge, pussy throbbing with the burning need to come. Your clit pulses, swollen and sensitive but you can’t find the strength to drop your down hand between your thighs.

They’re too busy scrambling for any kind of purchase on the slippery wall of the shower, manicured nails scratching against the tile uselessly.

You gasp for air, fighting to speak up under the intense pressure of his hand, “I could tell,” you choke out, barely audible, “you both fuck like you have something to prove.”

“You think?” he sneers, thrusting harder, your ass stinging each time he slams his hips into you. “Maybe that’s because we do. Maybe that’s because we both like seeing you fucking fall apart like this, seeing you beg for it after you finally stop being a little pissy bitch.”

Your breath hitches as his other hand drops from your hip, delving between your thighs to slide the calloused pads of his fingertips over your swollen clit.

You moan, thighs clenching together as he rubs fast circles over you. “You like that, don’t you? Being used like a fucking toy.” His hand squeezes just a bit tighter. “Say it. Tell me you love being our little slut.”

The words spill out of your mouth before you can stop them, a mix of desperation and raw honesty, “I love it,” you cry out as loud as you can, “I love being your slut.”

“God, you sound just like him,” Patrick chuckles into your ear, low and sinister. His hold on your throat tightens, cutting off your air entirely. You sputter, hand coming up to clutch his wrist like a vice. Your pulse thunders, hard enough that he can probably feel it against his palm. “Who do you think made him come harder?”

The image alone of Patrick and Art like that sends you flying to the edge. “Ah— Patrick! ” you moan, voice hoarse and strained, “Pat, I’m gonna— fuck—“

“Do it,” he goads, sliding his hand from your clit down to where your pussy is spread open on him. He pushes his thick index finger right up next to his pulsing dick, hooking it inside or you and stretching you that much wider. “Come on my fucking dick like the greedy whore you are.”

You let out a sharp cry as your forehead hits the wall, thighs shaking violently as Patrick’s hips become relentless. Your whole body tensing up as you come so hard your vision blacks out.

You think you’re screaming, but it’s hard to hear anything over the white noise buzzing in your ears. Patrick’s hips don’t stop, fucking your abused pussy into overstimulation as he chases his own orgasm.

His hand drops from your throat to dig into your hip to put more power behind his thrusts. You’re immediately gasping for air, taking in greedy lungfuls of it.

Patrick’s chest is plastered to your back, face buried in your neck as he rambles out more nonsensical obscenities. His dick pulses and twitches in your pussy, so close to filling you up.

An idea pierces through the fog of your brain, an idea so fucking filthy it has your pussy clenching weakly.

You think back to the first night Art fucked you, how he almost came all over Patrick’s pants just because they were his, just because you said his name. How worked up and hard Patrick got when you started talking about Art.

“When he fucked me for the first time, I was wearing your sweats, the green ones,” your voice is scratchy and quiet, barely audible over the shower’s spray, “he noticed.”

“Fuck– fuck you,” he grates out, hips faltering ever so slightly. “God, gonna come,” his hold on your hip tightens, strong enough that it’ll be sure to bruise.

You keep talking, spurred on by his reaction. “He almost came right there, he wasn’t even inside me yet, just rubbed his dick all over them like he could fucking feel you.”

Patrick gives one final slam of his hips, burying himself as deep as he can in your pussy. His low groans and curses fill the room as he unloads into you, pumping you so full of his come that you can feel each hot splash of it painting the walls of your pussy.

He slumps down against you, hips twitching as he works through the aftershocks. You can feel his breath puff over the shell of your ear.

You and Patrick say nothing for a long few minutes, running water the only thing to keep the room from being completely silent. Patrick is still pressed to your back, his chest heaves against your shoulders. You think you’d collapse if his hands weren’t still on your hips, practically holding you up.

You’re the one to break the silence, voice low and wrecked, “Art lasts so much longer than that…”

Patrick snorts against your back. “Fuck you.” he says, biting your shoulder hard and pulling his dick out of you in one swift move. You gasp sharply as his come floods from your puffy, wrecked hole. Thick streams of it dripping down your thighs until the water washes it away to swirl down the drain.

You turn on unsteady legs, hair plastered to your face with water. Patrick is right there, knees knocking against yours as he shifts the two of you closer to the spray. He looks like a marble statue, water dripping down the tip of his nose and between the hard planes of his abs.

He grins smugly down at you, “I’m staying at a hotel close to campus, unblock my number and I’ll send you my room number,” he wagers, hands sliding up and down the wet skin of your back. “I think you, Art, and I have something we need to work out.”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding your head with a small grin. “I think we do”

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jetii · 17 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Forty: Tethered

Chapter WC: 16,515

Chapter Tags/Warnings: some angst, some hurt/comfort, some...

A/N: I'm back back back again with a loongggg chapter. So much dialogue, so much to catch up on. Thanks everyone for your lovely comments and reblogs on the last chapter! Also icymi, new Rex and Goldie art.

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Hyperspace, 20 BBY

“I just pulled you out of bacta yesterday. You are not fine,” Wise says with a long-suffering sigh, barely sparing you a glance over his datapad from where he stands at the end of the bed.

"I'm better," you argue. You sit up further and try your best not to wince as the bandage pulls at the fresh scar tissue on your side.

You're not sure who the argument is really for anymore, him or you. But the longer you sit in the medbay aboard the Oracle the more you can feel the walls starting to close in.

Wise just scoffs and shakes his head, keeping his attention on his datapad.

You roll your eyes and look away, shifting uncomfortably. The bed is too soft, the sheets too smooth, and the room smells like antiseptic. There’s a curtain drawn around your cot, offering a semblance of privacy, but you can hear the voices of the other patients nearby, muffled and indistinct.

It’s been days since Rex and Wise helped you board the shuttle to take you away from Duro, leaving behind the destruction and death and the horror you helped cause. Days since the surgeons repaired the damage to your ribs and sealed the deep laceration in your side and arm. And in those days, all you've done is lay here, trapped in this sterile hell.

You'd be lying if you said the memories of your actions on Duro haven't been haunting you. You’ve spent most of your time stuck here, meditating and trying to process what happened. The visions have stopped, or at least you're not being visited by them while conscious, but the nightmares haven't.

The only time they seem to let up is late at night, in the quiet, dim hours, a soft light in the corner and Rex's presence next to you. The nightmares aren't gone completely, and they still come, but they're easier to deal with, knowing he's here.

The first night, the medics had tried to make him leave. You'd nearly had a meltdown, and Wise had finally intervened, telling them to just let him stay. Ever since, he's been a constant presence in the medbay, coming and going like clockwork. It’s the only way you can keep track of time, honestly. That, and Booker showing up every day at 1700 with food and news from the outside world.

“How’s our favorite prisoner?”

You look up as Booker strides in through the curtain, wearing a grin that almost masks the worry in his eyes. He stops by the foot of the bed, a tray of food in one hand and a stack of datapads under the other, and then turns his back to you abruptly. “Oh, sorry. Everybody decent?”

"Yes, and it's not funny," you groan, sinking down against the pillow.

"Oh, I disagree," Booker snorts. He sets the tray down on the side table and flops into the chair. "You look great."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't sarcasm," he assures you, though the mirth in his voice betrays him. He leans back in his chair, balancing on the rear two legs, and props his feet up on the bed, crossing them at the ankles. "So, how’re we feeling today?"

"Better," you reply, a half truth. You pick up the fork and push around the food on your tray. A pile of protein noodles and a glass of water. Your appetite is still nonexistent, even with the nutrients and fluids they've been pumping into you. "Where's Rex?"

"On the holo with General Skywalker," he replies.

"Ahsoka too?"

"Yeah, her too," Booker sighs.

"What's that about?"

"The Council's not happy with how things turned out," he says, dropping his voice to a low murmur. "You'd think the Jedi would have better things to do than to focus on the blame game. But, nope."

"I'm not surprised," you mutter, poking at the noodles. The smell is nauseating. "No point in defending me. What's one more slap on the wrist?"

"Well, they can't do much else," Booker says, glancing at Wise. "At least, that's what Skywalker told us. Something about a welcome home party. I'm assuming that means you're gonna have a lot of time to catch up on your reading. And, uh, your other hobbies."

"Lovely."

"Don't worry," Booker says, patting your foot. "We'll keep you company. We're grounded until further notice, so it's not like we're going anywhere anytime soon. We can keep you entertained. Maybe even go out on the town again."

"Sounds like a good time," you reply flatly, stabbing a noodle, and you try not to grimace as you take a bite.

Somewhere in the medbay, a call light chimes, and Wise gives you a sympathetic look before he ducks through the curtain and disappears. Booker waits until he's gone before he speaks again, his voice dropping even lower.

"How's the pain?"

"Fine," you lie, swallowing the mouthful. "I can handle it."

"Good."

You pause, the fork hovering over the tray, and turn your head to look at him. He's not looking at you, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His hands are laced behind his head, his expression blank, but there's something in his voice that gives him away.

Your gaze flicks to the stack of datapads and back up. The one at the bottom of the pile is face down, but the GAR symbol on the back is clearly visible. Your heart sinks.

"You got the numbers back, didn't you?" you ask quietly.

Booker sighs and looks over at you. "Yeah.”

You close your eyes, and you place the tray on the bedside table.

You've tried not to think too much about the aftermath of what happened, how the men might've reacted, but you've heard some of the hushed conversations and seen the looks on the faces of those who came in and out of the medbay.

It was full to bursting when you awoke here, and you'd spent the better part of two days listening to the cries and moans of the men who'd survived, feeling their pain and suffering in the Force. You accepted it, knowing it was your burden to bear. And even after everything that's happened, they were still grateful, and they were still glad you were alive.

But the men who didn't survive? The ones you all led to their deaths?

The weight of their sacrifice has been bearing down on you, and now, with Booker's confirmation, it's all the heavier.

"How many?" you ask softly. You've been avoiding asking the question since you woke up, and it's the only one you can't bring yourself to answer on your own.

“Listen…”

"Please," you beg. "I need to know."

Booker’s feet fall back onto the floor, and he rests his forearms on his knees.

"Two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight," he replies after a pause, his voice soft and measured. "The final number isn't in yet, but..."

The number echoes in your mind, and your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You turn away, taking a shuddering breath. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes, and you reach up, covering your face with your hand, trying to hold back the sobs that threaten to overwhelm you.

It's more than you'd expected. More than a whole regiment. One fourth of your men gone in the blink of an eye.

You know, deep down, that it’s not your fault alone that this happened. Your decision was the final domino in a chain of events that was set in motion the moment you received the call to aid Duro, perhaps even before that.

It's easy to say it was your failure to anticipate the outcome, to prepare for the worst, but the truth is far more complicated. No matter what decisions you made or didn't make, Duro was always doomed, and there was nothing you could have done to prevent it.

It doesn’t make the loss easier.

You feel the weight of the mattress shift, and Booker's hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

“Scoot over,” he says softly.

You hesitate, but he gives your shoulder a gentle nudge, and you slowly move over. He climbs onto the bed beside you and settles down, pulling you close, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. You rest your head against his chest, and his chin comes to rest on top of your head.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper.

"For what?"

"For not seeing the signs sooner," he replies, a note of bitterness creeping into his tone. "I knew something was off, but I didn't want to push. I should've—"

"Stop," you interject. "It wasn't your fault."

Booker sighs heavily and squeezes you tighter. You can feel his fingers digging into your arm, the frustration and pain rolling off him in waves.

"The Council wants me to talk to the men," he mutters. The bitterness is replaced by something else, a weariness, his body held tense against you. "They're worried about morale, after...everything. There’s going to be some restructuring and reassignments."

"You mean they want me gone," you reply, and he stiffens.

"It's not like that."

"I don't blame them," you sigh. "It's the smart move."

"That’s not going to happen,” he says sharply. You look up and meet his gaze, and you can see the determination burning in his eyes. "I'm not going to let that happen."

You can't tell if it's his words or the look on his face, but the tears are coming again, hot and fast. Booker sighs and draws you against his chest again, holding you close. You can feel the ache in his chest, the sorrow, and you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder.

"We're not giving up on you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "Any of us."

You nod and tighten your grip, and his hand moves to the back of your neck, gently rubbing the tense muscles there. You let out a shuddering breath and close your eyes, allowing yourself to relax into the contact, his warmth.

"Dash told me what happened," Booker says after a pause, his voice a low rumble against your ear. "At the generator."

You swallow hard and take a deep breath, the tears blurring your vision.

“You saved his life," he continues. You can feel his hands tremble before he flexes them and readjusts his hold. "If you hadn’t pulled him away, he'd be dead. They all would. You would. I'm...I'm so sorry for what you went through, but you did the right thing."

"Did I?" you ask bitterly, your voice cracking.

"Yes, you did," he says firmly.

"How can you say that? After all the death, after—"

"Because it's the truth," he cuts you off, his grip on your neck tightening, his fingers digging into the tense muscles there. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it's true. You made the only choice you could. We both did. And I'm not going to let anyone, the Council, or the Chancellor, or whoever, tell you any different. You hear me?"

You swallow and nod, not trusting yourself to speak, the tears falling freely now. Booker hugs you tightly and presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you can feel his own tears mixing with yours. You hold each other close, and you lose track of how much time passes, the pain and grief ebbing and flowing, the two of you wrapped up in each other's arms.

Finally, he pulls back and gives you a weak smile, his fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you out of here."

"But Wise—"

"He'll get over it," he says dismissively with a wave of his hand. He stands and pulls back the blanket, helping you slip your feet over the edge of the bed. "We're getting out of here."

You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, slowly easing yourself off the bed and onto the floor. Booker unfolds a pair of loose-fitting trousers he’d brought from your room, and you step into them, leaning against the wall to keep from falling over.

"Here," he says, helping you balance and pulling the pants up your legs, careful to avoid jostling the bandages on your side. You pull the drawstring tight before slipping off the gown, and he averts his eyes as he helps you into the sweater. It's oversized, with the sleeves hanging down past your hands, and the soft fabric is a welcome change from the stiff medbay garb.

"How do I look?" you ask, smoothing down the front of the sweater and doing your best not to grimace at the dull throb of pain that accompanies the motion.

"Honest or nice?" he asks with a wry smile, and you narrow your eyes.

"Both."

"Honest, you look like hell," he replies. He tilts his head. "Nice, like a woman who can still kill me with one hand behind her back."

You scoff and roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You can't remember the last time you smiled, but it feels good, almost foreign, the muscles in your cheeks stretching in a way they haven't in weeks.

"Ready?" he asks, offering his arm.

You take a deep breath and nod, gripping his forearm. "Let's go."

Booker pushes aside the curtain, leading you through the medbay. It's less busy than the last time you'd walked through it, most of the patients having already been discharged or moved to the recovery wing. Wise is nowhere to be seen, and the two medics on duty are preoccupied with arguing with a trooper a dozen beds down. The two of you breathe a sigh of relief and move faster toward the door, until a voice stops your in your tracks.

“Where are you going?”

You freeze and turn to see Dash sitting up in his cot, his dark hair mussed and a tired look on his face. He’s surrounded by a mess of discarded wrappers and datapads, and the bedside table is littered with half-empty cups of caf. You spot your destroyed comm among the pile of tech, its wires and circuits exposed.

"What are you doing awake?" you whisper, glancing back at the medics, who are still too preoccupied to notice the three of you.

"Fixing your comm," he replies with a shrug, and he gestures to the broken device. He glances between the two of you, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's going on?"

Booker looks over toward the medics and back, a mischievous glint appearing in his eye.

“Prison break,” he says quietly, his hand cupped to the side of his mouth.

A look of alarm crosses Dash's face. "You can't leave. Wise'll kill you."

"Wise can go fuck himself," Booker retorts cheerfully. He winks at Dash and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you toward the door. "Take a nap, kid. And if he asks, you didn't see us."

You glance back at Dash to see him watching the two of you go, a worried expression on his face. But there's a hint of a smile there, too, a glimmer of his usual optimism that you haven't seen since before Duro.

“No idea what you’re talking about. I think these meds are messing with my head," he drawls, settling back into his pillows and reaching for the cup of caf. “Just don’t take too long. Captain Rex will be back soon, and I don't think he'll be very happy to find you gone, General."

"Yeah, yeah," Booker waves him off. "Don't get your sheets in a twist."

Dash laughs as he turns his attention back to the pile of electronics, and the two of you slip through the door and out into the corridor. It's meal time, and most of the troopers are either eating or working, leaving the corridors empty and quiet. Booker keeps a firm grip on your arm, steadying you as you make your way through the ship, and you exchange conspiratorial smiles when you pass by the occasional crew member.

It's been so many months since you were able to just be together like this, no war or battles or missions hanging over your heads. You'd almost forgotten what it was like, the thrill and the anticipation, the spark of excitement that comes from breaking the rules. It's a welcome distraction from the turmoil and grief, and for a brief, shining instant, everything feels normal again.

“I haven’t done anything like this in ages,” you mutter to him as the two of you walk side-by-side, Booker's hand resting gently on the small of your back.

"Like what?" he asks, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't know," you reply with a shrug. "Breaking out of the medbay. Sneaking around. Feels like being a Padawan again."

"You? Breaking the rules?" he gasps, feigning shock. "I never would have guessed."

You snort. "Oh, shut up.”

He chuckles and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and the two of you walk in comfortable silence through the corridors. The ship is quiet, save for the hum of the engines and the soft voices of the men, and you take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of grease and metal and recycled air. It's not the first time you've been grateful for the ability to hide in the vastness of hyperspace, where the war and the darkness can't reach you. And it helps being surrounded by the familiar faces and sounds and smells of home.

You're still a bit wobbly, your body aching and sore, and you lean against Booker's side, letting him support some of your weight. He doesn't comment on it, and he slows his pace, his steps careful and measured.

“You don’t talk much about those days," Booker says softly. His gaze is fixed forward, his tone carefully neutral, but you can feel the undercurrent of curiosity, the unspoken question.

"Talk about what?"

"Your life before us," he replies. "You never mention it."

"There's not much to say," you reply evenly. The lie comes easily with years of practice to perfect it, but Booker sees right through you.

"Come on," he prods, shaking you slightly. "Indulge me."

You sigh and look down, worrying the inside of your cheek. You've avoided talking about your past with the men, and Booker has never pressed you. But you know he's curious, and you owe him more than just silence.

It’s been a long time since you’ve thought about your childhood in the Temple, about your years of training, and even longer since you allowed yourself to miss it, the comfort and security and innocence of it all. But now, with the memory of those nights sneaking through the corridors of the Jedi Temple with Obi-Wan fresh in your mind, it feels almost natural to share the stories with Booker, to allow yourself a glimpse back at a simpler time.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything," he says with a grin.

"That's a lot of ground to cover," you chuckle.

"I'm a patient man," he replies, winking. "And we've got a lot of ship to walk."

You laugh and shake your head, but the memories are already coming back, the stories you haven't told in years.

"Well," you begin, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I guess I'll start from the beginning. I was brought to the Temple as a baby..."

You tell him about the first years of your life, about the other younglings, the games and the mischief, the endless lessons and meditation. You tell him about training with Master Sinube, about the times Obi-Wan had covered for you, the adventures you'd gotten into. You tell him what it was like to be chosen by Yaddle, about the day she died, and the years you'd spent mourning her, unable to understand why she'd been taken from you.

And the more you talk, the easier it becomes, the pain and the sorrow fading away, replaced by a bittersweet nostalgia. You can almost feel the warmth of the sun on your face, hear the laughter of the other younglings, taste the sweet pastries you'd make with Master Yoda for the Festival of Stars. It's a strange feeling, to share this part of yourself with someone else, to allow yourself to remember the joys and sorrows of the past.

Booker listens intently, a smile playing at his lips. He asks questions, probes deeper, and his curiosity is contagious. Before you know it, you're telling him stories about the less appropriate times, the late nights and the pranks, the time you'd accidentally set a training room on fire, the time you and Obi-Wan had nearly ruined diplomatic relations with Hynestia Prime as teenagers.

"Wait, wait, wait," Booker says, laughing, stopping the two of you in the middle of the corridor. "How did you end up in the fountain?"

"I couldn't tell you," you chuckle as you against the bulkhead, wincing when the wound in your side pulls. "Hynestian ice wine is stronger than it looks."

"So I've heard," he says, grinning. "And the prince?"

"He didn't seem to care much," you snort. "He sent a marriage proposal to the Council the next morning."

Booker doubles over, howling with laughter, and the two of you dissolve into fits of giggles, clutching each other for support. The pain in your side is forgotten, the weight of the grief and the darkness lifted, if only for a short time.

Booker finally manages to regain his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes. He pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and leading the two of you down the corridor.

“You miss it," he says after a pause, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah, I do," you admit with a sigh. "I didn't realize it until now, but...I do. There were good times. The Temple was home, and the Order was family. It's not perfect, and there are things I wish I could change, but..."

"What would you change?" he asks quietly.

"Well," you start slowly, but the words die in your throat, and you frown.

A hundred things come to mind, and none of them seem right to speak about with Booker. There’s enough discontentment already without speaking on the way they turned their backs on you over Yaddle, or how the Council had been so slow to act the growing threat of the Separatists, or how the rules and restrictions had only grown more stringent and the punishments for breaking them had increased.

The Order isn’t the same as it was, and the changes weigh heavily on you. But it's not Booker's burden to bear, and you can't bring yourself to share that burden with him.

"Never mind," you sigh as the memories fade away, replaced by a sadness and a weariness that you can't shake.

Booker watches you carefully before nodding, and you can see the understanding in his eyes. You’ve known for a long time that he’s more than aware of the rumors and whispers about you, the speculation about your motives and loyalty, and that it bothers him, too. He doesn't need to hear the details.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, and the melancholy settles over you again. The nostalgia and the joy had been brief, a reprieve from the grief, and it fades as quickly as it came, leaving behind a hollowness in its wake.

You turn down a side corridor and approach a large viewport looking out over the stars, and Booker stops, letting go of your arm and stepping up to the transparisteel. You join him, leaning against the railing, and the two of you stand there, side-by-side, gazing out into the endless expanse.

The stars are a blur as the Oracle speeds through hyperspace, a kaleidoscope of color and light. It's hypnotic, and you let yourself get lost in the pattern, your mind wandering, the events of the past days playing over and over in your head.

“Can I ask you something?" Booker's voice cuts through the silence, pulling you back to the present. When you turn, his brow is furrowed, his hands resting on the railings. "And be honest."

"Of course," you reply.

He takes a deep breath and glances down, his fingers tapping against the metal.

"Would you leave the Order? If you had the chance?" he asks as his eyes meet yours, unwavering. "For good."

You're caught off guard by the question. You'd expected him to ask about the past, not the future. You look down, chewing the inside of your cheek.

Your first instinct is to deny it, to push the idea and reassure him you’d never even think about it. But you stop yourself.

The Order is your home. Or, it always felt that way. But the longer the war goes on, the more you realize home isn’t the Temple, not anymore. Not since Yaddle disappeared, and certainly not since the war began.

Now, the Jedi Temple is just another building, a relic of a past you can no longer fully claim. You still believe in the ideals, the principles, and you have no doubt the Order is doing what is best for the Republic, but it feels distant, alien, and at times, almost hostile.

In truth, the most at home you’ve felt since Yaddle’s death has been among the clones, and the most at peace with yourself has been with Rex. The Order is the foundation for everything you do, but the 419th are your foundation now, and it's the men, the bonds between you and the friendships you've made, that have given you strength, purpose, and the will to carry on, no matter how heavy the burden might be at times.

Leaving the Order and your position as their general behind is unthinkable. But after the war ends, if you survive it...well, that's a different question, and one that's not as clear cut.

"I...don't know," you admit softly.

Booker nods and turns his attention back to the viewport, and you follow suit, your gaze drifting back to the stars.

"Why are you asking?" you press gently after a pause.

He sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't know," he mutters, and his shoulders slump. "I guess...I guess I'm just wondering if you're okay."

You blink and look up at him, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I'm worried about you," he says, a slight frown crossing his face. He rests his hands on the railing again, staring out at the stars. "I know Snap has already told you how we feel, but...it's not easy. The Council may be giving you shit for what happened on Duro, but we don't."

He pauses, his jaw working, his gaze fixed on the viewport. You watch him closely, waiting, unsure where this is going.

"We don't blame you for any of it," he continues, and there's a note of determination in his voice, a hint of anger. "I know what's going to happen once we get to Coruscant. You're going to take the fall for it, and the Council is going to sweep the rest under the rug. It's not fair, and it's not right."

"Booker," you start, reaching out to him. "You know I have to. It was my call, my decision."

"That's what they're counting on," he replies bitterly, pulling his arm away from you and turning to meet your gaze. "They know you'll take the fall, because that's who you are. But it wasn't your fault. It was an impossible choice, and you did what was best. You made the only decision you could, and I'll be damned if they're going to hang that around your neck."

“You can’t protect me from this, Booker," you tell him, and you take his hand, squeezing gently. "They're going to do what's necessary, and there's nothing either of us can do to stop them. I'll accept whatever punishment they deem fit."

"You shouldn't have to," he says. He shakes his head, a note of pleading creeping into his voice. "You've done nothing but try to make things better. You're a hero. You deserve better."

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, letting the weight of his words sink in. A hero. It's a term that's been thrown around a lot lately. You've heard it from him before, from many of the men, even from Anakin, that you should be praised and celebrated, not condemned and questioned. But the truth is far more complicated, and the praise feels hollow and meaningless. You're not sure you can ever truly accept it.

"There's no such thing," you say with a sigh. "Not really."

"Maybe not," he concedes, his eyes searching yours. "But you deserve a chance to live your life, not just survive. You deserve the opportunity to make your own choices."

"I chose to lead the 419th, and that's what I'm going to do," you reply, a note of finality in your tone. You take his hand, holding it firmly. "No matter what happens, I'm not going anywhere."

"You should," he says with a bitter laugh. "Get as far away from here as you can. Find a nice planet somewhere in the Outer Rim, or even the Unknown Regions, and settle down. Live the rest of your life in peace."

"And do what?" you scoff. "Plant vegetables and raise nerfs?"

"Whatever the hell you want," he replies with a shrug. "Hell, open up a bar or something, and let everyone else fight the war."

You can't stop the amused smile from spreading across your face at the suggestion, and a soft laugh escapes your lips. It's a nice fantasy, the thought of getting away from it all and starting over. Your dreams of the golden fields and Rex have shown you that it might be possible, if you could convince him to go with you. But even that feels distant, out of reach, a faint whisper in the back of your mind. And not one you can dwell on while people all over the galaxy are fighting and dying.

"My taste in alcohol doesn't exactly fit with the general populace," you say wryly. "I think I'd have an issue with my clientele."

"Who cares?" he replies. "It's your place. You can kick out anyone you want. No rules. No regulations. No Council breathing down your neck."

You smile and shake your head. "And who would run it?"

"Me," he says confidently. "I'm good with numbers. I'd manage the books, keep the lights on. I'll even work for tips."

"What, so I can be your boss?" you ask, arching an eyebrow.

"You're my boss already," he replies with a lopsided grin. "Might as well pay me for it."

"Fair point," you snort.

"It's your life, General," Booker says after a pause, his tone soft, serious. "You should do what's best for you. That's all I'm saying."

You sigh, running a hand through your hair and wincing as your wound pulls. "And if what's best for me is staying right here, with you and the 419th, can you accept that?"

He's quiet for a while, his brow furrowing, and his gaze moves back to the stars. You wait patiently, letting him process his thoughts. It's not an easy decision, and you know he's wrestling with it, too. He's had his own doubts about the war and the toll it's taken on the both of you. And you're not the only one who's lost someone along the way.

Finally, Booker takes a deep breath and sighs, a resigned look crossing his face. "If that's what you want."

"It is," you reply, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Then I'm with you," he says, his grip tightening on yours. "Until the end."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," you reply as you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

He chuckles and squeezes your hand, and the two of you stand there, watching the stars blur by, a comfortable silence falling between the two of you. He seems content to keep standing here, and you're happy to indulge him. There's still a lingering sense of guilt and shame, and it will be some time before it fades completely. But the pain is easing, and for the first time since Duro, it doesn't feel like the weight of the galaxy is resting on your shoulders.

"How are the others?" you ask quietly, breaking the silence. "How's Snap?"

"They're alright," he replies, his tone neutral, but there's a hint of weariness in his voice. "Most of them, anyway. Snap's pissed about his leg, and he's got a wicked scar, but he's gonna be fine. They all are."

“And you?”

"Me?" Booker scoffs. "I'm peachy, thanks for asking. Drowning in reports and requisition forms, and someone decided to pick up a new shiny on Duro that's made my life a living hell this past week. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

You look away and try to hide your smile, feigning ignorance. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh," he grumbles, rolling his eyes. "Well, you're gonna have a hell of a time dealing with him. Looks like we're stuck with him now."

"I thought Price would want a reassignment," you frown. "Doesn't he want to join his batchmate? The one from the 212th?"

"You'd think," he snorts derisively. "But he's dead set on staying with us. Thinks he owes it to you."

"Owes me?"

"Yeah," he shrugs. "For saving his life. Won't shut up about it, actually.”

"That's not—"

"Don't even try," he interrupts with a smirk. "If the rest of the men weren't already convinced of your heroics, the kid's been telling everyone within earshot about it. So much for being a humble Jedi, eh?"

You sigh and shake your head. "I can talk to him—"

"Oh, no," he interjects, and his expression turns serious, his eyes fixed on you. "You're not talking to him. Or any of the men. I'm putting my foot down."

"Excuse me?"

"You're still recovering, and the last thing anyone needs is you getting worked up about everything that happened," he says firmly. "Let the kid gush. Let him sing your praises. Hell, let him build you a statue if it'll make him feel better. But until I get the all-clear from the Chief, you're not setting foot near the barracks, got it?"

"That's ridiculous," you protest, a scowl crossing your face. "I'm their General. I have a duty to them."

"Yes, you do," he replies, his tone even. "And your duty right now is to get some rest. We'll deal with the men. The Council is sending over a team to assess the 419th, see how the losses will affect operations."

"When?"

"In a couple days," he says. "We'll have our briefing and start going through the personnel files."

"And where will I be during all of this?" you press, a hint of bitterness entering your voice.

"Taking care of yourself," he says firmly, and his expression softens, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. "Don't worry about the rest. Let me and the others take care of the heavy lifting."

"Booker, I can't—"

"I won't hear any arguments," he cuts you off, and his grip tightens, his eyes boring into yours. "I'm serious. We've got this. And if we need your input, we'll ask for it. But until I say otherwise, you're taking the time to recover. That's an order."

You narrow your eyes, glaring at him. "You're enjoying this."

"Maybe a little," he admits with a smirk, and he pulls away, letting his hand drop from your shoulder. "But I mean it. I've got everything covered. Just take care of yourself. Please."

"Alright," you relent, the irritation fading, and you sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. "If it'll make you happy, I'll stay out of your way."

"It will," he replies. "Thanks."

The two of you exchange a smile, and he reaches down, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, guiding the two of you away from the viewport. You try not to drag your feet at the prospect of going back to the medbay, the thought of spending another night alone with nothing but the endless stream of memories and nightmares for company.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's get you back to the Chief before he finds out you're gone."

"Yeah," you murmur, a hint of dejection in your voice. You glance back over your shoulder, the stars blurring together into a sea of light, and then sigh and let him lead you away.

You don't make it further than a few steps down the hall before a familiar figure rounds the corner, and your heart skips a beat in your chest. Rex is marching toward you, a deep frown on his face, and you can sense his anger and frustration before he even opens his mouth.

“Uh oh. Busted,” Booker mutters under his breath, and he stops short, pulling away from you. "You’re in trouble now."

“Me? This is your fault,” you hiss back, jabbing him in the ribs with your elbow, and he grunts. “I’m innocent. I’ve been kidnapped.”

Rex is upon the two of you in an instant, and the scowl on his face is enough to make both of you squirm. He plants his feet in front of the two of you and crosses his arms, glaring at Booker.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he demands.

"Hey Rex," Booker greets him, his tone casual, as if he hasn't just been caught red-handed. "Fancy seeing you here. How's it going?"

"You know damn well how it's going," Rex retorts, and the glare shifts from Booker to you, the disapproval evident. "We've been looking all over the ship for you. What are you doing out of bed?"

"Nothing," you reply. "Just...enjoying the view."

"Really? 'Cause the last time I checked, the view is exactly the same in the medbay," he replies dryly, his eyes narrowing.

"Is it?" you ask, feigning surprise. You glance over at Booker, who just shrugs, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Yes," Rex sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. "It is."

"Huh," you mutter. "How 'bout that."

Booker snorts and tries to stifle a laugh, and you can't hold back your own grin, the two of you exchanging a conspiratorial glance. Rex looks between the two of you and lets out a groan, shaking his head in exasperation.

"This isn't funny," he snaps, jabbing his finger at the two of you. "You're injured, and you need rest. Why the hell did you think it was a good idea to sneak out of the medbay?"

"Okay, seriously," Booker cuts in. He holds up his hands. "You can stop with the yelling. She didn't have anything to do with it. It was all my idea. Blame me."

"Oh, I am," Rex replies darkly. "Trust me."

"Come on, man," Booker says, and he puts a hand on Rex's shoulder, the gesture intended to placate him. "It's not that big a deal. She's fine. She was just stretching her legs, that's all."

"And you didn't think to bring a comm unit or tell someone where you were going?" Rex presses, pushing Booker's hand away. He turns his attention to you, and his eyes dart to the floor. "And where are your shoes?"

You follow his gaze, and a flush creeps across your cheeks as you realize that you're not wearing any shoes. Or socks. You'd been so eager to escape the confines of the medbay that you hadn't even thought about it, but now that you have, a chill runs down your spine. Your feet are cold and aching, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to warm them up.

"Well..." you begin slowly, trying to think of an excuse, but Rex is already stepping toward you, his frown deepening.

"You've been missing for an hour," he says quietly, reaching out. His hand hovers in the space between the two of you before he glances at Booker, and he sighs and rubs the back of his neck instead. "I was worried something happened.”

"Nothing happened," you assure him. "We're just—"

"Taking a walk," Booker finishes for you.

Rex nods slowly and looks down the corridor, his expression hardening.

"Alright," he says, and he turns and starts walking back the way he came.

"Where are you going?" you shout after him.

"To get a pair of socks," he calls over his shoulder, not stopping or looking back. "You're not walking around this ship barefoot. Just stay there.”

Booker chuckles and shakes his head, and you stare after Rex, bewildered.

"Told you," he whispers. "You're in trouble."

"Shut up," you mutter, and you shove him playfully.

He grins and shoves you back, and the two of you start arguing like children, pushing and wrestling with each other. He’s being gentle, and you can tell he's holding back, not wanting to hurt you. It only serves to make you more frustrated. You're not an invalid, and the fact that everyone else thinks you are is beyond irritating.

You're about to push him again, harder this time, and put him in his place, but the sight of a familiar face returning stops you in your tracks.

“Hey! Stop that," Rex snaps as he reappears, carrying a pair of socks and boots. Booker immediately stops and steps back, straightening his posture and folding his hands behind his back. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

"It's not my fault," you protest, but Rex ignores you, kneeling down in front of you and grabbing your foot. You're so shocked that you can't even react as he slides the sock onto your foot and starts working the boot over it.

You glance at Booker to see him grinning at you, and you can't keep the sheepish smile from spreading across your face. He raises his eyebrows and gives a pointed look at Rex, who's still on his knees in front of you, and the embarrassment intensifies.

"Oh, no you don't," Rex grumbles, and he yanks the other boot from your grasp when you try to pull it out of his reach. "I've got it."

"I can do it," you insist.

"Let him," Booker interjects, his tone playful. "It'll make him feel better."

Rex sighs and glares up at him, but the look melts away as soon as his eyes meet yours, and he goes back to working the boot over your foot. He takes his time, carefully buckling them and adjusting the straps, and your face heats as his hand lingers on the back of your calf.

"There," he murmurs, looking up at you.

"Thanks," you manage to squeak out, your cheeks burning.

"Don't mention it," he mutters.

You stare down at him, unsure what to do or say. His hand is still resting on your leg, and his thumb is rubbing slow circles on the back of your knee. It's a tender, intimate gesture, and it's all you can do not to throw yourself at him and kiss him.

The silence that has settled between you is broken by a loud snort, and the two of you quickly look over and see Booker watching with raised brows, his mustache twitching.

"What?" you snap as Rex jumps to his feet. His face is bright red, and he turns and faces the wall, refusing to look at you.

"Nothing," Booker smirks, and he winks at you. "I'm gonna head to the office. I've got a bunch of reports to finish. You okay to get her back?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rex mumbles, his voice hoarse. "Go ahead. I've got it."

"’Course you do," he chuckles. He steps forward and wraps an arm around your shoulders. He plants a quick kiss on the top of your head. "See you in the morning, General. Captain."

“Bring cards,” you call out after him, and Booker gives a thumbs up over his shoulder as he strides away.

The two of you watch him disappear around the corner before turning to each other, and an awkward silence descends upon the two of you. You look away, trying to keep your composure, and you can hear Rex clearing his throat, no doubt fighting the same battle.

"So..." you trail off, biting your lower lip.

"So," he says with a shrug, and you lapse into another uncomfortable silence.

You glance down and notice that his hand is balled into a fist at his side, and you remember the way he'd hesitated earlier, the way his fingers had lingered on the back of your leg. He'd wanted to touch you. You take a step toward him, and his eyes meet yours, his gaze intense, searching.

"You're not mad?" you ask hesitantly.

"I was," Rex admits. "But...he's right. You were only taking a walk."

"I didn't mean to worry you," you reply.

"I know," he sighs. "I was just...scared."

"I'm sorry," you say, taking another step forward. "I just needed to get out of there. It’s been days, and…”

"I understand," he says softly, and the look in his eyes takes your breath away. "And...I'm glad you're safe."

"Me too," you smile.

Rex moves closer, his eyes never leaving yours. He's mere inches away now, and he casts a furtive glance up and down the corridor before he cups your cheek in his palm. You lean into the touch and close your eyes, relishing the warmth of his hand. He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, and a shiver runs through you.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his voice low and gentle.

"Better," you reply, and you reach up and take his hand, giving it a squeeze. "You don't need to worry about me, though."

"That's a lost cause, cyar’ika," Rex murmurs, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, his fingers curling around yours. “You shouldn’t be wandering the halls like this. You could get hurt."

"I was feeling claustrophobic," you say, a small, apologetic smile crossing your face.

"We're on a starship," Rex replies wryly.

"Exactly," you mutter, rolling your eyes.

He sighs and shakes his head, but you can see the hint of a smile pulling at his lips. He brushes his knuckles across your cheek and steps away, his hand dropping to his side.

"Let's get you back," he says, and he offers his arm to you.

"Can we take the long way?" you ask him with a mischievous grin, your arm linking through his. "I haven't seen the outside of that room in a while."

He snorts and rolls his eyes. "Fine. But if the Chief or anyone else asks, it's your idea, and I had nothing to do with it."

"Deal.”

The two of you set off, strolling slowly down the corridor. You lean against him, enjoying the closeness, the feeling of his arm, warm and solid, beneath your touch. The corridors are empty, save for the occasional clone trooper who nods at the two of you as you pass, and the quiet is a welcome reprieve.

The silence between the two of you is comfortable, and Rex seems content to let it linger, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. You let your mind wander, and soon enough, you find yourself lost in thought.

Your conversation with Booker has brought up a lot of questions, and a lot of uncertainties. You've been so focused on getting the war over with that you've never really given any serious thought to what life will be like afterward. At the beginning of the conflict, you and the rest of the Jedi had thought the war would end in a few months at most, and life would go back to normal.

But as the months and years went on, and the losses mounted, the reality became clear.

You'd spent the past year fighting a war that wasn't going to end anytime soon. It had already changed you, and it’s changed the lives of the men. And there was no telling how much more the war would change the galaxy.

As for your place in it, you have no idea what your future holds. But you have a feeling it depends on the man walking beside you, and just how far the two of you are willing to go to be together.

Rex’s hand comes to rest on yours, his thumb rubbing the back of your palm. You resist the urge to lace your fingers through his, to hold his hand properly.

He's been skittish around you since you woke up from the bacta tank, and you don't want to push him too far, too fast. But to go from casual touches and hugs while the two of you were still pretending to be nothing more than friends, to this, his hand on yours and nothing more, is difficult. Especially since your kiss on Duro was so...intense.

You’ve only been awake and lucid for a couple days, and in that time, he's kept his distance, only touching you occasionally and always in a professional or protective manner. He sits by your bedside in the evenings and reads reports with you, his eyes glued to the datapad, and his hand rests on the sheets beside him, never once venturing close to yours. Even now, his touch is hesitant, light and cautious, as if he's unsure of himself, afraid of what might happen if he does anything more.

It's frustrating, to say the least, and part of you wonders if it's because he regrets what happened. Maybe he's changed his mind about the two of you. Maybe he's decided it's too risky. Maybe he's not sure what he wants anymore.

Maybe you need to make it clear that you're ready for this, and whatever happens, it's going to be worth the risk.

"What are you thinking about?" Rex asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. He turns and looks down at you, his gaze searching, and you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"You," you answer, your voice soft.

"Me?" he says, his brow furrowing. He sounds surprised, and you can sense the nervousness building within him.

"Mhm," you nod. "Is that so hard to believe?"

"I guess not," he says slowly, but he still looks unsure. He glances away, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. "You're always on my mind."

"Always?"

"Always," he confirms as he turns back to look at you. "Ever since...well, ever since we met."

"Well, that's good to hear," you say, unable to hold back a smile. You lean closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, and you feel him stiffen for a second before relaxing slightly. "Because you're on my mind, too."

Rex ducks his head, and his cheeks flush, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder, and his grip on your arm tightens.

"Rex. Relax," you say gently, and his eyes meet yours. You give him a reassuring smile and squeeze his arm, hoping the touch will ground him, remind him that it's okay, that this is okay. "I'm just teasing. I promise I won’t bite. Well, not unless you want me to."

He groans and covers his face with his free hand, his head falling forward. You can't keep the smirk from spreading across your face as his flush creeps down his neck.

"Not funny," he mumbles, but there's no real anger in his voice. And when his hand falls, you can see the hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"I'm sorry," you say, laughing.

He huffs and rolls his eyes, his hand dropping from yours, and the loss of contact sends a pang of disappointment through you. He steps away and puts a bit of distance between the two of you, his gaze turning back to the path ahead.

"Come on," he mutters. "Let's go."

You walk beside him, your shoulders brushing every now and again, but he doesn’t try to take your hand again. A heaviness settles over the two of you, the silence weighing down on you like a shroud, and you find yourself fidgeting as you walk. It feels like something has shifted between you, a wedge that hadn’t been there before. You can feel it, an unease that hadn’t existed before, a wall that wasn't there a week ago.

You want to ask, but you can't bring yourself to break the silence. You cross your arms over your chest and hunch your shoulders, and Rex does the same, his gaze fixed on the floor ahead.

It's clear the two of you need to talk, but you're not sure how to start the conversation. The last thing you want to do is push him. You made a mistake before the battle began in asking for that dinner, and his hesitation had been apparent, even if he hadn't said no. Now, you're not sure what's holding him back, but whatever it is, it's not something that can be fixed with a joke.

Even though Rex had told you he loved you and kissed you after everything fell apart, and even though he had taken the time to check up on you while you were in the bacta tank, and even though you feel a connection between the two of you, stronger than any other relationship you've ever had, you can't assume anything. You can't risk scaring him off again. You’re not sure you can survive losing him.

But there's something bothering him, and the longer it goes on, the more it seems to eat away at him. His smiles don't quite reach his eyes, and the bags beneath his eyes have gotten darker. You’ve caught him staring off into the distance a dozen times in the past couple days, his expression troubled and conflicted. Whatever is bothering him is weighing him down, and you wish he would tell you what it is.

He's clearly hurting, and you can feel his pain, his uncertainty, as if it were your own.

"Are you alright?" you finally ask him.

"Of course," Rex replies quickly, his gaze never wavering from the path ahead.

"Rex," you say softly, stopping.

He stops too and turns to face you, his brow furrowed, his hands clasped behind his back. "What's wrong?"

"I can tell something's bothering you," you say, reaching out and resting a hand on his arm. "You can tell me. I'm here for you."

"It's nothing," he says. He gives your hand a gentle pat and turns, continuing down the corridor.

"Rex," you say, a note of exasperation in your voice.

He doesn't reply, and he doesn't stop walking.

"Rex," you repeat, louder. You haven't moved from your spot, and the gap between the two of you widens.

Rex slows, but he doesn't turn. His shoulders slump, and he comes to a stop, his head hanging forward.

"I'm not letting this go," you say, keeping your tone even. You cross your arms over his chest and wait for him to turn and face you.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, and for a second, you think he's going to keep walking. But he sighs and turns, his eyes meeting yours.

"Now isn't the time. You need to get back."

"You need to talk," you counter, raising an eyebrow, and you plant your feet, standing your ground. "And I'm not moving until you do."

"You're so stubborn," he mutters, shaking his head.

"So are you," you retort. "So either you start talking, or we're going to be standing here all night."

Rex’s eyes narrow, and you stare right back, determined not to blink first. The two of you stand there, locked in a silent stalemate. You're not going to let him brush this off, not this time. Something's bothering him, and the longer he keeps it bottled up, the worse it will get. And if there's one thing you've learned over the past several months, it's that things have a way of bubbling to the surface, no matter how hard someone tries to bury them.

Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh, and the fight seems to go out of him. He closes the distance between the two of you and takes your arm, gently leading you into an alcove, out of view. You allow him to guide you, and he stops, turning to face you. His hands are still holding your arm, his grip firm and unyielding.

"This is what's bothering me," he says quietly.

"Me?" you ask, confused.

"No," he sighs, his hands tightening on your arm. "Yes. No."

Rex drops his hands and runs a hand through his hair, a look of frustration crossing his face.

"I don't know how to say it," he admits quietly, and his gaze falls to the floor, his brow furrowing. "There's so much going on, and I..."

He trails off, and you wait, giving him the space to sort through his thoughts. You can see the pain in his eyes, and you want to reach out and comfort him, to reassure him, but you stay still, giving him the time he needs.

"Rex, what is it?" you ask, trying to keep your tone light and encouraging. "Whatever it is, we can work it out. Together."

Rex takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his gaze is fixed on the wall behind you, and his jaw is clenched. He looks almost...scared.

"It's just...what happened back there. After..." he trails off and takes another deep breath, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "What happened between us...was a mistake."

Your heart drops to your feet. You feel like someone's knocked the wind out of you, and you take a step back, the shock and pain washing over you in a wave.

It takes all of your self control to keep your face neutral. The last thing you want is to make him feel bad about his feelings, but hearing those words stings. You knew you were pushing your luck, and the possibility of Rex having changed his mind was always there, but you hadn't thought it was actually the case.

You swallow the lump in your throat and square your shoulders, doing your best to look unaffected. The mask you’re used to wearing slips into place, and you can feel the walls coming up around your heart, blocking out the hurt and rejection.

"Oh," you manage to choke out, trying not to cringe at how hollow your voice sounds. "Okay. I'm...I'm sorry."

"No, no," Rex says quickly, taking a step toward you, and he reaches out and takes your hand. You pull away and cross your arms over your chest, and he drops his hand back to his side, a crestfallen look crossing his face. "Please, let me explain."

"You don't have to," you tell him, looking away. You're not sure how much more of this you can handle, and the last thing you want is for him to apologize. The last thing you want is for him to pity you.

"No, please," he insists, and he takes another step toward you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

You turn and look at him, and the pain and fear in his eyes is enough to make you pause. You nod, giving him permission to continue, and Rex lets out a shaky breath, his hand dropping back to his side.

"It's not...it's not because of you," he begins, his voice cracking. He swallows hard and continues, his eyes fixed on the ground, his tone quiet. "It's...everything. I care about you, cyar'ika. More than anyone. And I meant it, what I said to you. But..."

"But what?"

"This is wrong," he whispers. "Everything about this is wrong. It's...it's selfish and reckless and irresponsible, and I..."

"You regret it," you say, finishing the sentence for him, your heart sinking. "I understand."

"I don't," he says firmly. "That's not what I'm saying. I could never regret you. Please, just let me finish."

"There's nothing to say," you say, the mask cracking. You can't stand here and listen to him talk about the two of you like this. Your chest is tight, and it's getting harder and harder to breathe. "We were both under a lot of stress. It was a mistake, and it won't happen again."

"I don't want it to stop," Rex says, his voice rising slightly before he quickly looks around, his gaze darting up and down the hall, checking for anyone who might have overheard him. His tone drops again, and his voice shakes as he continues. "I care about you, and...and I love you, and I want to be with you, but..."

"But what?"

"But I can't," he says, the words coming out in a rush, his voice breaking. He looks down and takes a shaky breath, and his eyes meet yours. "We can't do this. We can't be together. It's not possible."

"Right," you nod, doing your best to hide the hurt, the disappointment.

You should’ve known it was too good to be true, that someone as kind and wonderful as Rex would ever want someone like you. You should've realized it before the kiss, but your own stupidity blinded you, and now...

"I want to. I do. So much," Rex breathes. His hand cups your cheek, his fingers trembling against your skin. "More than anything. But it's...it's impossible."

"I see," you murmur.

"Cyar'ika," he says softly, and the pain in his eyes, the way his voice cracks, the way his hand trembles against your cheek, it breaks something inside of you. You feel like your heart is shattering, and you close your eyes, trying not to cry. "Look at me."

You shake your head, and his hand slips from your cheek. You take a deep breath and open your eyes, doing your best to keep your composure.

"It's okay," you say quietly, trying not to break. "I understand."

"Please," he whispers, and his voice cracks. He takes your hand in his and holds it tightly, his gaze boring into yours. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm just...I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" you ask hoarsely, your brows furrowed. You shake your head and take a step back. His hand falls away, and his shoulders slump. "From the Council? They don't need to know about this. About us. I'd never—"

"It's not the Council," he interrupts, and he glances down the corridor. You follow his gaze, and you both spot a droid approaching. Rex quickly pulls you deeper into the alcove, shielding you from view. The two of you wait until the droid passes, and he releases his grip on you, stepping back. "I'm trying to protect you from me."

"What are you talking about?" you demand, the hurt giving way to confusion.

"Look," he starts, and he turns away, running a hand over his head, his expression strained. "I can't...I can't give you what you want."

Your eyes narrow. "What is it you think I want?"

"A life," he replies, turning back to face you. He lets out a shaky sigh, and his eyes lock with yours, the look in them so earnest, so desperate, it takes your breath away. "A future.”

"What does that mean?"

"It means...it means this can't be forever," Rex says, gesturing between the two of you. "You're a Jedi. I'm a clone. I'm not...I can't be what you need. I know you saw a future for us in that dream, and I know you want that. You deserve that. But...that's not going to happen. Not with me."

"Rex..." you sigh.

"I don't know how much time I have left," he says softly, his voice trembling. He's trying so hard to keep it together, to stay strong, but you can see the cracks forming in his facade, the pain and sorrow starting to leak through. "I could...I could die tomorrow. Or next week. Next month. I can't give you a life, and I can't promise you a future. Not one like the one you saw. All I can give you is now, and maybe not even that."

"Rex, that's not true," you say, stepping closer, but he moves away, putting distance between the two of you, as if he can't bear the thought of being close to you.

"Yes, it is," he says, his voice cracking. He glances up and down the corridor, his expression pained, and his eyes flicker to yours before darting away. "I'm sorry, but...this is the way it has to be. This is the only choice I can make."

"No."

"Cyar'ika—"

"No," you repeat, your voice rising.

Your anger is threatening to spill over, and you take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. You know it's not his fault, that he's just doing what he thinks is right, but the fact that Rex would give up so easily, without even trying, without fighting for the two of you, infuriates you. After everything, after all this time, he's just going to walk away?

"No?" Rex asks incredulously.

“It’s not the only choice, and you know it," you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You can feel the hurt starting to bleed through the cracks, and you fight to hold it back, to keep yourself from lashing out at him. "You're choosing to be alone, and to suffer alone, and that's not the only option."

"Maybe not, but it's the right one," he says, his eyes meeting yours, and you can see the pain and sadness reflected there. “It’s what’s best for you."

"Don't," you hiss, taking a step forward. He recoils slightly, his eyes widening, but you press on. "Don't do that. Don't try and tell me what I need or what's best for me. I've been listening to everyone telling me what to do and how to act for years, and I'm done with it. It's not the Council's place to decide what's best for me, and it's not yours, either."

"You know that's not what I'm doing," he murmurs.

"Yes, it is," you snap. "You think I don't know what the risks are? You think I don't understand that every single day could be the last, for either of us? I do. More than you realize.”

"Then why are you fighting me on this?" he demands, and he runs a hand over his head, letting out a sharp exhale. The pain in his eyes is like a knife in your chest. "If you know that, why would you want to risk it?"

"Because," you say, your voice wavering, the tears threatening to spill over, "it's worth it. Because I'm in love with you, Rex. And I don't care if it's selfish, or stupid, or reckless. I don't care about the consequences. I don't care if we only have a day left together, or a year, or a lifetime. All I care about is being with you."

The alcove falls silent save for the sound of your ragged breathing. You stare at each other, the air thick with emotion, and the tears in his eyes threaten to undo you. But underneath the pain, you can see the longing, the same desire that burns within you, and the sight fills you with hope.

"Do you hear yourself?" he whispers, and his eyes dart up and down the corridor, his voice low. "You can't mean that."

"I do," you reply, your voice softening. You take a step forward, your hands clasped in front of you. "I love you, and I'm not afraid. Not of anything. Not of the Council, or the Senate, or the war. Not even death. But the thought of losing you, of being apart from you...that's the scariest thing in the world. I don't care about the rest of it. All I care about is you, Rex."

Rex falls silent, his gaze fixed on the ground, and his shoulders sag. You reach out and take his hand, and he squeezes it tightly, his breathing shaky.

"There's no future without you," you whisper, your voice trembling. "What I saw...it was only worth dreaming about because you were there, too."

Rex looks up at you, his eyes wide, and a spark of hope flares within you. You can see it in his expression, in the way his gaze lingers on yours, and the way his hand tightens, as if he's afraid you'll slip away.

"You said you don't regret me," you continue, stepping closer, and you gently cup his cheek in your palm, the tears spilling down your cheeks. "Do you really believe that, or were you just trying to let me down easy?"

"I meant it," he says, his voice hoarse, and he leans into your touch, his hand resting on top of yours. "I've never regretted you, cyar'ika. Not for a second."

"Then what's changed?" you ask. "Why is it different now?"

"Nothing's changed," he murmurs, and he turns his head and presses a soft kiss to the center of your palm. "I'm still the same man, and my feelings for you are the same. Nothing could ever change that."

"Then why?"

"Because..." Rex trails off, and he takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because it's not fair. To either of us. To have something like that and know that it's going to end, that there's no chance of it lasting...it's not right. I don't want you to have to go through that."

You give him a sad smile and brush a stray tear from his cheek. He closes his eyes, his brow furrowing, and his grip on your hand tightens.

"And you think I would rather live with regret?" you ask, tilting your head to the side.

"What?"

"If something were to happen, if we were to lose each other," you say softly, your thumb brushing across his cheekbone, "do you think it would be better for me not to have had this? Not to have had you? Do you really believe that?"

"I..." Rex opens his eyes and stares at you, his gaze searching.

"Would you rather live with regret than take a chance?"

"No," he admits, his voice quiet. "I would never want that. Not for either of us."

"Then don't let that be the reason you choose," you say, leaning closer, your hand resting against his neck, and his pulse races beneath your fingers. "You're right. We don't know how much time we have, or what's going to happen. But that's the price of love. And the risk is worth it. To me, anyway."

Rex closes his eyes as he finds your hand, and he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a shuddering breath. When he opens his eyes again, the pain in his gaze takes your breath away. He squeezes your hand, his other hand coming up to cradle your face.

"You really want this?" he asks, his voice rough.

"Yes," you breathe.

"Even knowing the risk?"

“Yes.”

"Cyar'ika," he whispers as the fight goes out of him, his shoulders sagging. His eyes glisten, his lower lip trembling. "You...I..."

"You can say it, you know," you murmur, and a small smile tugs at your lips. "If that's what you want."

Rex nods slowly, his gaze locked on yours. He swallows hard, and a tear spills down his cheek as he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to the back of your palm.

"You know," he says quietly, his voice cracking. You wait for him to continue, to deny his feelings, to try and push you away again, but he doesn't. Instead, he takes a deep breath, and a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. "It's not fair. You know just what to say to get your way."

"It's not getting my way if we both want the same thing," you reply with a grin. "But if it helps..."

He laughs, a soft, rueful chuckle, and his smile grows, the warmth in his eyes sending a spark of joy through you.

"You're a terrible influence, cyar'ika," he sighs. His fingers tighten around yours, and he pulls you close, his arms wrapping around your waist. "The worst, really."

"And yet," you tease, sliding your arms around his neck, "here you are."

"Here I am," Rex agrees with a fond smile, and his hand slides up your back, pulling you closer. He ducks his head, his lips hovering over yours. "I love you, too, by the way. In case that wasn't clear."

"It was," you laugh.

You close the distance between the two of you, pressing your lips against his. He melts into the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you flush against him. The kiss is soft and gentle, a sweet press of his lips against yours. But the intensity of the emotions behind it, the way Rex holds you, as if he's afraid you'll disappear, leaves you breathless.

It’s hard to hold back, harder still to let him lead. The slow, almost hesitant way he kisses you, as if he's scared he'll break you, is almost unbearable. It takes every ounce of your self control not to deepen the kiss, not to push him against the wall and devour him.

Instead, you force yourself to let him take his time, his lips lingering on yours, his hands trailing down your back. He’s so gentle, so tender, and it almost hurts. But the pain is mixed with pleasure, and you can feel the heat spreading through your body, chasing away the chill in your bones.

Rex breaks the kiss and pulls back, his eyes dark and his cheeks flushed, and he smiles a lazy, satisfied smile. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing over the spot where they'd been earlier, and he lingers there for a second, his breath hot against your skin.

"You have no idea how hard it's been," he breathes as his fingers trail up your spine, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, "keeping myself from doing that all this time."

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea," you grin, and he chuckles, his breath warm against your cheek.

"Yeah, well," he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your hips. "Now that I've started, it's going to be difficult to stop."

"Then don't," you smirk. You press a kiss to his jaw, the stubble scratching your lips. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rex smiles and leans into the kiss, his lips ghosting over your cheek. He tilts your chin up and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose before slotting his lips against yours again. This time, he's a little more insistent, a little less hesitant, pulling you closer as he kisses you, and a rush goes through you at the realization that he's starting to let go, to allow himself this. You press closer, and he lets out a pleased hum, smiling against your lips.

The two of you stand there for a while, the quiet broken by the occasional giggle or whispered promise, and you revel in the feeling of being close to him, the way he holds you, the way his hands wander, exploring every inch of you. He touches you reverently, as if you're made of glass, his fingertips tracing delicate patterns across your skin, and it's so sweet, so tender, so perfect, that it leaves you breathless.

Finally, Rex breaks the kiss and lifts his head, and he brushes a stray tear drying on your cheek.

"It doesn't change anything," he sighs. "The risks are still there. There are rules, and the Council..."

"Fuck the Council," you mutter, and his eyes widen, a startled laugh escaping his lips.

"Cyar'ika," he scolds, but his tone is amused, and the corners of his lips are turning upward. "You're a Jedi, and a general."

"Sorry," you apologize, laughing, and you press a kiss to his cheek. "But seriously. Screw all of it. We've been dancing around this for months, Rex. Months. And the war's just getting worse. I don't know how much time we have. So, can we please just...forget about the rules and the consequences and everything else for a second, and focus on the fact that we love each other? Can't we just have that? Please?"

Rex chuckles softly and shakes his head, his arms tightening around you, and he gives you a tender smile.

"For once, I agree with you," he says, and he tilts your chin up and kisses you, slow and sweet, his lips soft against yours. "Just this once."

"I'll mark the occasion on my calendar," you tease, and he rolls his eyes.

"You and I both know you don't have one of those," he snorts.

"I could get one," you reply, shrugging. "My first entry. Today, Captain Rex admitted he's wrong about something."

"I did not," he huffs, his brow furrowing, and he leans back and gives you a stern look. "Don't put that on there."

"Yes, you did," you insist, grinning. You press a kiss to his cheek and step back, and his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you close again. "You said I was right, and that we should just ignore all the rules and focus on us."

"Well, that's not..." He starts, and he stops, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, fine. You were right. But we need to talk about this, and the risks involved."

"We will," you assure him. "Right now, I just want to enjoy this. Just for a little while."

Rex looks at you, his gaze soft, and he nods. "Okay. We can do that. But we can't keep this a secret forever. Sooner or later, people are going to find out, and..."

"One step at a time," you interrupt, and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He relaxes slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. "So?”

"So," he repeats, a grin pulling at his lips. "We're really doing this?"

"I mean, unless you're having second thoughts," you tease, and he laughs, his breath tickling your cheek.

"No," he answers, cupping your cheek, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "Not at all."

You smile and press a kiss to his palm, and he lets out a soft sigh, his eyes fluttering shut.

"I love you," Rex murmurs. "And...and I'm willing to risk whatever comes next, as crazy as it sounds. If that's what you want."

"I do." You lean into his touch and grin. "This is all I want."

"Me too," he says, his eyes opening, and the adoration and love in his gaze is almost overwhelming. The smile on his face is infectious, and you can't hold back a grin. "We're really doing this. We're together."

"We're together," you repeat as you bounce a bit, unable to contain your excitement. You throw your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and he lets out a startled laugh.

"Easy," he laughs, but he pulls you close, holding you tightly. The motion tugs at your wound, and a hiss of pain escapes your lips before you can stop it. Rex quickly releases you, his eyes wide, his hands hovering near your injury. "Kriff. I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," you wince. "I'm fine. It's not bad. Just a bit tender."

He studies you for a second before he lets out a sigh and drops his hands. He steps back and looks around, his eyes sweeping over the corridor, checking for any possible prying eyes or ears.

"I should get you back," he says, turning back to you with a solemn expression. "It's getting late, and you need to rest."

"Can't we stay like this a little longer?" you ask, and you grab the front of his armor, pulling him in for a quick kiss. "We don't get many opportunities like this."

"As tempting as that is," Rex sighs as he extricates himself from your grasp and steps back, "no. We've already pushed our luck enough tonight."

You sigh and nod, and he takes your hand and leads you back toward the medical wing. The two of you walk in silence, your shoulders brushing, and the occasional smile passes between you. You can't wipe the grin from your face, and every time you look at him, his eyes are locked on yours, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips.

Rex is in love with you.

He wants to be with you, and he's willing to break the rules for the chance. It's more than you'd ever hoped for. And if the two of you have to hide it, if it has to be a secret, well, you're used to secrets. Besides, you can think of worse things than sneaking around with him, stealing kisses and spending stolen nights together.

As you walk, your pace slows, and you drift closer to him. Exhaustion is beginning to seep into your limbs, and you find yourself leaning into him, letting him take your weight. The cocktail of medication Wise has been pumping into you has been keeping you awake and alert, but after the physical and emotional toll the day has taken on you, your body is starting to give out.

You blink, trying to clear the fog from your eyes, and you stumble slightly. Rex immediately grabs your arm, steadying you, and you lean against him.

"Alright?" he asks, concern evident in his tone.

"Mhm. Tired," you mumble. You stifle a yawn, rubbing your eyes.

"Almost there," he says gently, his hand sliding around your waist and pulling you closer, supporting some of your weight. "You should've told me you were exhausted."

"Wasn't until now," you say, the words coming out slurred. "I was having fun."

"Fun, huh?" he chuckles, and the rumble in his chest vibrates through you.

"Yeah. I like spending time with you."

"I like spending time with you, too," he replies. Rex looks around before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to the side of your head. "We'll do it again. Soon."

"When?" you ask, your eyelids fluttering. You feel like you're about to pass out, but you force yourself to stay awake, wanting to spend as much time with him as you can.

Rex pulls you to a stop, steadying you as you sway on your feet, and he looks you over. You must look a sight, because his eyes soften, and he shakes his head and sighs.

"C'mere."

You let out a gasp as the world blurs around you, and you're lifted into the air. Rex scoops you up in his arms, one arm around your back, the other hooked under your legs, and he holds you against him, cradling you to his chest. He continues walking, and you blink, staring up at him.

"What're you doing?" you ask, confusion lacing your voice. "I can walk.”

"No, you can't," he snorts. "You're barely upright."

"Still," you grumble, struggling halfheartedly.

"Stop squirming," he says. He ducks his head, and a kiss brushes against your hair. "I've got you."

"Rex," you groan, closing your eyes and leaning into him. Your head is spinning, and you can't keep your eyes open any longer.

"Cyar'ika," Rex sighs, and you can hear the exasperation in his voice. "How about this. If you stop fighting me, and you listen to Wise and actually rest until we get to Coruscant, we'll do something together. Anything. Your choice."

"Anything?" you ask, opening one eye and looking up at him.

"Yes. Anything."

"And it's a date?"

Rex laughs, a soft, gentle laugh, and he looks down at you, a smile tugging at his lips.

"If that's what you want," he says, his voice warm and affectionate. "It's a date."

"Okay," you murmur. You snuggle closer, letting out a contented sigh, and let your eyes fall shut. "Can we eat at Dex's?"

"Of course," he replies, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Good," you mumble, and you drift off to the steady, soothing rhythm of his heart beating against your ear.

The next thing you know, you're being lowered onto a bed, and you let out a sigh, blinking open your eyes. Rex is leaning over you, and he smiles as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. You're about to ask him to stay when your eyes shift over his shoulder to find Wise staring at the two of you. The clone medic stands a respectful distance away, his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face.

"Don't be mad," you plead.

"Oh, I'm not mad," Wise retorts, rolling his eyes. "I'm pissed. Because I told you specifically to not move around, and you did the exact opposite."

"She just needed to stretch her legs," Rex interjects. You try not to look too pleased at him coming to your defense despite his own reservations about the situation, but you’re sure you’re failing. "You've got her cooped up in here. And she's getting bored. She needed a change of scenery."

"So she decides to go for a stroll," Wise says with a snort, and he moves to your side, placing a hand on your shoulder and pressing you back against the mattress. "And has Dash lie for her."

"That was Booker's idea," you argue. You try to push him away, but your movements are sluggish and uncoordinated, and you end up waving your hand lazily in the air instead. "Not my fault."

"Uh huh," Wise drawls, his gaze flicking over to Rex, who has taken a seat beside the bed. "And you thought that was a good idea?"

"Well," Rex starts, his voice hesitant. He clears his throat and straightens his posture, folding his hands in his lap. "Not particularly. But I thought it was a good sign. That she's getting restless."

"It's a good sign, alright," Wise grumbles, and he reaches for a scanner, holding it above you. It emits a high-pitched beeping noise, and a holographic screen appears, displaying your vitals.

"There's nothing wrong with me," you complain, crossing your arms over your chest and slouching against the pillow, your bottom lip jutting out.

"Your vitals would disagree," Wise says. He pokes your shoulder. "Stop pouting. It doesn't work on me."

"I'm not pouting," you mutter.

"Looks like a pout to me, General," Rex chimes in, and you shoot him a glare.

"You're supposed to be on my side," you say accusingly.

"And I am," he replies. He shrugs. "Just being honest."

"See? At least someone here is," Wise scoffs as he runs a handheld scanner across the length of your body. You squirm at the tingling sensation, and he gives you a sharp look, his brows furrowing. "Would you sit still?"

"I'm going crazy in here," you sigh, slumping back against the bed.

"Then don't run around and make it worse," Wise grumbles. His fingers press lightly against the bandage around your ribs, and you bite your lip, holding back a whimper as the pain flares through you. "How's the pain? Scale of one to ten."

"A three," you lie, and he arches an eyebrow, giving you a pointed look.

"Really."

"Maybe a four," you concede.

"Alright," Wise says, his expression softening. "Well, the good news is that you didn't rip any of the sutures."

"Told you," you say, shooting him a smug look. "You didn't even need to scan me."

"And the bad news," Wise continues, ignoring your comment, "is that you're exhausted, and your little stunt has set back your recovery by a couple days. Which means more bacta and a whole lot more rest."

"Fine," you huff, sinking lower into the bed, and Wise rolls his eyes.

"Which means no more going for walks," he warns.

You open your mouth to protest, but Rex catches your gaze. He raises his eyebrows and gives you a pointed look, and, remembering his promise, you close your mouth. A smile spreads across your face, and his lips quirk up into a grin.

"No more walks," you confirm, nodding solemnly.

"Good," Wise says, his tone clipped. He gives you a hard look, his eyes darting between the two of you, and his head tilts slightly. "What's that look for?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, shaking your head. You clear your throat, looking anywhere but at Wise. "What look?"

"That's not a nothing look," Wise replies, and he gestures toward Rex, who's doing his best to remain neutral, though you can see the slight flush to his cheeks. "Something's going on. What is it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Rex says. He shrugs and shifts in his seat. "We were just...talking. The General promised me she'd stay put. And she will."

"Uh huh," Wise mutters, and he studies the two of you for a second longer before letting out a sigh. He shakes his head and gives you a stern look. "Get some rest. And don’t move."

"Yes sir," you say, smirking.

"Funny," he drawls. He turns and jerks his head toward the curtain. "Captain, a word?"

"Sure," Rex says, rising to his feet. He glances at you, and his eyes linger, a warm, tender look on his face. You can tell what he wants to say, what he wants to do, and you wish Wise would hurry up and leave so he could. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," you say, smiling. “Bye Rex.”

His lips curve up into a small, shy grin. “Bye.”

"Alright, that's enough," Wise grumbles, and he pulls the curtain aside and ushers Rex through, giving you a stern look as he does. "Stay. Put."

"I will," you sigh. You wave a hand in the air, gesturing for him to leave. He gives you a final glare before pulling the curtain closed behind him.

As soon as the fabric settles, your shoulders slump. The fatigue is catching up with you, threatening to drag you under, and the last bit of fight left in you is fleeing quickly. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, trying to suppress the pain flaring in your ribs. Maybe wandering the halls of the Oracle wasn't such a good idea after all.

"She okay?"

"She will be," Wise sighs. His voice is low, and the tone is one you haven’t heard him use often. He's worried. "She needs rest. And less excitement."

"I know. Sorry," Rex mutters. "I shouldn't have encouraged it."

"I'm glad you did," he admits softly. "As karking annoying as it is, it's good to see her smiling again. And you're probably the one person she'll actually listen to."

"Yeah, well. It took some convincing," Rex chuckles. "But she promised to behave."

"And how did you manage to convince her of that?" Wise asks. There's a hint of suspicion in his tone, and no small amount of amusement, and you hold your breath, waiting for Rex's response.

"She's tired," Rex replies, and you let out a silent breath, grateful for his quick thinking. "And I've been around her enough to know how to handle her."

"Handle her," Wise repeats, his voice full of disbelief. "Right. Like a feral tooka."

"More like a..." Rex pauses. You can hear the smile in his voice, the affection evident, and your heart skips a tiny, traitorous little flutter, "a nexu. Dangerous, if cornered."

Wise snorts. "And you're not scared of being on the wrong end of her claws?"

"Nah. Not anymore," Rex replies, and you feel your cheeks warm. "I know how to get out of the way."

"Lucky for us," Wise mutters, and the two men chuckle. Their footsteps move away from your bed, and they settle on the far side of the room. "So. You want to tell me why you've really been in here every night since the incident?"

"What are you talking about?" Rex asks, his tone carefully neutral.

"I'm talking about you sitting here with her, watching her sleep," Wise drawls, and your eyes widen. You didn't know Rex did that, and the thought sends a thrill through you. "Or do you want to try and tell me it's because you're just a good friend and a dutiful Captain?"

Rex is silent for a minute, and the anxiety twists in your stomach, worry beginning to set in. You know it's ridiculous to be concerned. Wise knows how to keep a secret, and he would never go out of his way to report either of you for this. But a part of you is terrified if he pushes the issue, Rex will realize he's made a mistake and pull back.

"Is it that obvious?" Rex asks quietly, and your worry melts away, relief flooding through you.

"Only to me," Wise replies. He lets out a sigh, and there's a creak as one of the chairs in the room shifts. "Well, and to Booker and a few of the others. But I doubt anyone else suspects anything. Not unless you've been careless."

"I haven't," Rex assures him. He's silent for a second, and the chair creaks again. "What gave it away?"

"Oh, I don't know," Wise snorts. "Maybe the fact that the two of you can't be in the same room without touching and gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. Or maybe it's the way you talk about her. Or the fact that you've barely left her side since the day she was brought in here."

"Yeah, yeah," Rex mutters, clearing his throat. You can imagine the flush spreading across his face, and the image sends a smile across your face. "Guess I'm not as subtle as I thought."

"Oh, you're subtle," Wise says, and the amusement is clear in his tone. "To an outsider. But to me? You're about as subtle as a Hutt. I've been watching the two of you since Kamino. It was just a matter of time before something happened."

"Watching us?"

"Keeping an eye on you, is more like it," Wise clarifies. He lets out a heavy sigh. "Listen. I don't know the specifics, and I'm not going to ask. Force knows I don't want to know the details. But I'm not blind, or stupid. I know there's something between the two of you."

"Yeah," Rex says softly, his voice thick with emotion, and he clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. "There is."

"It's none of my business," Wise continues, his tone softer, "and I'm not going to tell anyone. I just...don't…” He sighs. “Be careful with her. Please. She's...she's like family. I don't want to see her get hurt."

The room falls silent, and your breath catches in your throat. You can't help but be touched by his words, by his concern for you. He's always been protective, especially after Nadiem, but this is the first time he's openly admitted his feelings to someone else. It warms your heart, and the ache in your chest isn't entirely from the wound.

"I don't want to hurt her," Rex says, his voice barely a whisper. "Ever. I love her. More than anything. I'd die before I let that happen."

"Good," Wise replies gruffly. He clears his throat, and you hear the chair scrape against the floor as he stands, a grunt escaping his lips. "Because if you do..."

"I know," Rex says, and you can hear the amusement in his tone. "You'll kick my ass."

"No," he corrects. There's an edge to his voice, a coldness that sends a shiver down your spine. "I'll kill you."

The threat lingers in the air, hanging heavily over the two of them. You don't doubt that Wise would make good on his promise. In fact, you're fairly certain that he'd succeed.

You sit up to listen closer, wincing at the pain flaring through your side. The movement causes the bed to creak and groan, and you freeze, your eyes trained on the curtain. You wait for several beats, holding your breath, until Wise speaks.

"Good talk, Captain. Glad we're on the same page," he announces, his voice full of false cheer. You hear him clap a hand on Rex's shoulder. "Now, if you don't mind, I've got rounds to finish."

"Right. Of course," Rex says, and you can picture the way he's nodding his head, his lips pursed in a tight line. "Thanks. For, uh...being understanding. About all of this."

"Like I said," Wise drawls as his footsteps start moving toward the curtain, "it's none of my business. Just do me a favor."

"Yeah?"

"Get better at lying," Wise says, his voice dry. "Or we're going to have a problem on our hands. A big one."

"Right," Rex replies wearily. "I'll...work on that."

You lie back and close your eyes as Rex's footsteps grow quieter, and the door to the medbay hisses open and shut. When they're gone, you let out a sigh and sink into the pillows, your eyes fluttering shut. The conversation was...well, surprising. And enlightening.

You weren't aware Wise knew about your feelings for Rex, or his feelings for you. But the fact that he's not going to say anything, that he's willing to risk his own neck to keep the two of you safe, it's...well, it's touching. And more than a little surprising.

The curtain shifts, Wise's familiar presence approaching your bedside, and you try to keep your breathing even as he pulls the sheets up around your shoulder and adjusts the pillows. You can't quite hide the grin though, and he sighs as he pulls away.

"Knew it," he grumbles.

You peek open one eye and find him staring down at you, his arms folded across his chest, his brow arched.

"What was that about?" you ask innocently.

"Nothing," Wise says. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, and his eyes glint. "Just a friendly chat between brothers. Don't worry about it."

"Uh huh," you murmur. You yawn, and he turns and heads back toward the curtain. "Wise?"

"Hm?"

"Thanks," you say softly. You turn your head, watching him. "For not saying anything."

"You know I'd never betray you like that," he says as he looks over his shoulder, his gaze serious. "Never."

"I know," you say, and you give him a small, reassuring smile. "But thanks, anyway. You're a good brother."

Wise blinks, his eyes widening slightly, and he turns away. You can see a flush starting to spread across his cheeks as he pauses at the curtain. Finally, he shakes his head and steps through, yanking it closed behind him, leaving you alone in the darkness.

"Good night, cabur'ika."

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#the clone wars #captain rex #clone captain rex #captain rex x reader #rex x reader #roy writes #event horizon #this chapter and the next four-ish were so fun to write #i literally couldn't stop myself from working on them every chance i got #i missed dialogue soooo much #also!!!! bought hot toys cw rex as a gift to myself for my emotional turmoil #he is watching me write this #i love him to pieces

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