Chapter Text
Two days before the anniversary
Office of the Supreme Chancellor, Coruscant
After twenty years of war, Marshal Commander Fox was still being pushed around by Senatorial aides.
This one, a short and balding human man with a portly belly stretching his shirt, literally pushed past him as they both clambered into the Chancellor’s Suite. Fox was here for a scheduled meeting with the chancellor. This aide, apparently, did not give a flying kriff. Fox wanted to snarl at him, but it wouldn’t have done any good. The aide didn’t look up at him as he elbowed his way past and jogged to the Chancellor’s desk, datapad in hand. Chancellor Vellour, a dark-skinned human man from Kuat, looked up from his own datapad as the aide reached the edge of his desk.
“What’s this?” Vellour asked, taking the datapad from the aide with a frown.
“Your speech, for the Twentieth Anniversary Address,” the aide answered. Fox stayed by the door, dutiful and silent, and resigned himself to waiting and watching.
Chancellor Vellour sat back in his chair and smoothed the velvet ceremonial tabard that he wore over a distinctly militant outfit, complete with a cape and shiny boots. HoloNet news during Vellour’s initial campaign said he ran on a pro-war platform: rallying the Galaxy’s people together under the theory that victory would once again unify the Republic. Fox supposed Vellour’s fancy military outfit supported his pro-war attitude, but he knew the man only supported the war for as long as it filled his account with credits. Several glittering rings sparkled on his fingers as he gestured for the aide to sit in the chairs in front of his ornate and carefully organized desk.
The Supreme Chancellor’s formal suite was in the same rooms it had always been for the nearly twenty years that Fox served the Office of the Supreme Chancellor, even though the interior décor had changed, as well as the person who occupied the Chancellor’s seat. The red carpet that stretched across the floor at the beginning of the war had been removed, and the original white and gold marble tile beneath was restored. The change at first was played off as an attempt to restore the original beauty of the Senate building, but Fox knew it was because they never were able to get the blood and scorch marks out of the old carpet.
“Do you really think I should say we’re maintaining peace?” Vellour asked, arching one dark eyebrow at the aide. “There’s a lot of uneasy talk about the recent bombings on Saleucami.”
“That’s the official wording from The Party,” the aide said. He ran a hand through his tousled thinning hair and pulled on his pale face.
Fox pursed his lips to refrain from grimacing. He would like to tell Vellour’s Party what official wording they should be using. There was more than bombing on Saleucami. The droid armies were razing whole cities and gunning down fleeing survivors. The reports Fox had read from the battalions there made him sick. But the official wording of the chancellor’s political allies was apparently that the Republic was “maintaining peace,” and, in the end, what did the opinion of one grumpy old clone matter to the “Unity Party”?
“What’s this part at the bottom?” Vellour asked. He tilted the datapad so the aide could see. The aide didn’t look, but his cheeks flushed as he pulled at his tunic.
“They want the hra—the clone to make a statement about the state of the war.”
Fox knew they were talking about him as “the clone.” The aide had nearly slipped and called him hraladar, a slur for clones that had only recently been strongly discouraged in the Senate building. Fox wasn’t sure why the aide stopped himself from saying the whole word. Maybe because he knew Fox was in the room, even though neither he nor the chancellor looked in his direction or acknowledged his presence. Maybe he was worried Fox was recording them with his helmet, and saying the word could cost him his job. Or, maybe he knew about what Fox had done to the last Chancellor he disliked and was genuinely afraid of the blaster strapped to Fox’s hip. Fox smirked at the thought.
Fox had now served under three different Chancellors, with three wildly different leadership styles, and three distinct attitudes toward Fox and the clones in general. He supposed Palpatine was the worst of the three. He was, as they discovered, a literal Sith Lord. When Fox had finally put all the pieces together and made the decision to remove him from the Chancellor’s Office with one precise aim of his blaster, he thought the next chancellor would end the war and free his brothers. But the war continued. And his brothers remained enslaved.
Not enslaved. In service.
Without rights.
Chancellor Organa had treated Fox and the clones with at least a modicum of respect. Not enough, of course, to free them or give them a seat in the Senate or pay them. But smiles in the corridors and calling his men by their ranks and names instead of hraladar or clone was better than nothing, right?
“Alright, let me know if anything changes,” Vellour sighed, dismissing his aide with a wave of his hand. The aide stood and shuffled out of the room, tapping on a second datapad that he pulled from inside his jacket. Vellour’s eyes slid over the datapad in his hands, and he whispered to himself as he read through the speech again. Fox waited, jaw clenched, fists tight, impatience and anger tapping insistently at the base of his spine.
He needed to update Vellour on security at the anniversary address in two days. He was genuinely concerned that something might happen while the entire Republic was watching the chancellor’s speech. Or, Force forbid, while Fox gave his own speech. There had been a rise in terrorist attacks across Coruscant in the last year. They bombed industrial complexes and schools and refugee towers across the planet, each time leaving nothing behind except a strange symbol tagged onto nearby buildings. He’d had reports from the other Marshal Commanders that the rise in terrorism was not limited to Coruscant, and similar attacks were taking place across the Galaxy. While they were close to uncovering the source, Fox was afraid the terrorists would strike the Senate in one massive demonstration during the anniversary celebration. It would make sense for them to take the opportunity to attack then. Every HoloNet station would be broadcasting the address, and everyone in the Republic would be watching. If there was ever a time to make a statement, during the address was the time to do it.
“How can I help you, Commander?” Chancellor Vellour asked, not looking up from his datapad. Fox stepped forward to stand between the chairs in front of the chancellor’s desk, but was not invited to sit down as the aide had been.
“It’s about new security measures for the address, sir,” Fox informed him. The chancellor looked up at this, his dark eyebrows raised in surprise. “I’ve increased perimeter security and I’m requiring all entrants to the building to be searched by security probe.”
“Do you think a probe is necessary?” the chancellor asked warily.
“Absolutely. We’ll also do a sweep of the entire complex prior to the event. The terrorists might attempt a demonstration or violent attack during the address. We’re not taking any chances.” Fox remained at attention as Vellour sighed and rubbed at his face. Fox never understood why natborns were so resistant to increased security. Fox’s purpose was to protect the people of Coruscant, and especially the Senate. Even if he secretly thought most of them didn’t deserve to be protected. Why should they? What had they given him and his brothers? Not respect, nor commendations, nor representation. Certainly not salaries or benefits or days off. Fox was their ever-present Marshal Commander of the Guard. Forever protecting them from the evils in the galaxy. Forever protecting them from themselves.
Sometimes Fox wondered why he had bothered to stop his accelerated aging. It had only delayed the death he wished for every kriffing day.
“I thought the threat was gone. I thought you eliminated their leader,” Vellour argued, his brow furrowing deeper.
“We did eliminate the leader of the terrorists here on Coruscant, sir,” Fox answered. The chancellor raised his eyebrows and spread fingers with palms up.
“So, what’s the problem?” he asked derisively. Fox worked his jaw and resisted the urge to growl.
“I have reason to believe that was a single cell that is connected to a larger group currently being investigated by General Kenobi and the 7th Sky Corps,” Fox explained. Vellour rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.
“You clones are so…” Vellour waved his hand around as he tried to think of an appropriate insult. His eye caught Fox’s and he let out an impatient sigh. “Well. I suppose safety is the best protocol. An incident like this wouldn’t help my re-election chances, would it?”
Fox was silent as he stared at Vellour. He really didn’t give a flying kriff if Vellour was reelected. It didn’t matter to Fox at all. No matter who was in charge, he would still be here as Marshal Commander of the Coruscant Guard, wishing only for the end of the war or else the sweet release of death.
“You’ll have to speak at the address,” Chancellor Vellour continued when Fox didn’t reply. “It’s just a few lines. I’ll send them to you. Make sure you practice, so you sound at least a little eloquent. The entire Galaxy will be watching.”
“Yes, sir,” Fox said, barely concealing the grumble in his voice.
“And maybe you could wear something dressier? Or maybe just some cleaner armor? Your appearance reflects on me and this Office, and that armor you wear every day is…” Vellour’s eyes trailed down Fox’s body, and he raised one sardonic eyebrow before looking back into Fox’s face with a sneer. “Well, I suppose it’s fitting for a clone. But try to look presentable for the address, will you? Like I said, the whole Galaxy will be watching.”
Fox pursed his lips to keep from snarling. The armor he wore had protected him for years. It was scorched and dented and cracked and resealed. He was proud of every blemish, every scuff, every burn mark. Just like the scars on his skin, his imperfect armor displayed every battle he had survived. Every blaster burn was a shot meant to kill him. Every dent and scratch were from shrapnel that had been thwarted by the plastoid alloy. Every repaired crack was a fight he had not only survived but had won. Chancellor Vellour could never understand. No civilian could ever understand.
The chancellor dismissed Fox with a wave of his hand and Fox saluted quickly before leaving. As he pushed his helmet back on in the corridor, he wondered: if he stopped saluting, would the chancellor notice? Fox passed through the wide, curved corridor that encircled the perimeter of the Senate Rotunda outside the chancellor’s office, nodding politely to anyone who made the mistake of looking into his faceplate as he passed by. He was a clone, and despite the bright white and red of his armor, he was supposed to be invisible. He kept his eyes open and his head on a swivel as he passed through the crowd, but he neither expected nor wanted the attention of the crowd itself.
Fox’s stomach swooped pleasantly as a pair of golden eyes met his among a sea of senators and aides in the crowded corridor. Fox dared to let his gaze linger on her familiar blue skin, the elaborate headpiece she wore like a crown on her lavender hair, and the tattoos on her cheeks that matched her liquid gold irises. His fingers twitched involuntarily as he remembered touching those tattoos, running his fingers through her hair, dragging his lips across that rosy-tinted blue skin.
The memories faded quickly when the Pantoran senator turned away from him toward a tall and slender Pantoran man who leaned in to whisper into her ear. The pleasant swooping in Fox’s gut turned into a solid punch as Riyo Chuchi, who Fox had at one time thought could be his and his alone, laughed brightly at whatever her husband whispered to her. Fox gritted his teeth and turned a corner, pointedly not looking back.
A message from one of Vellour's aides pinged his comm as he descended in a lift from the upper levels of the Senate Rotunda to the dungeon-like warehouse where the Coruscant Guard offices were set up. He dismissed the message, not really interested in whatever drivel the Unity Party wanted him to say in his speech during the Twentieth Anniversary Address. Instead, he looked out the transparisteel of the lift, the warm late afternoon sun gleaming off the tall buildings of the federal district and let pleasant memories of years long gone wash over him. It was in this elevator he met Riyo over seventeen years ago. He wished he could go back to those easy days. The days before the chips were removed, before Palpatine was discovered and the war changed, before his and Riyo’s lives and duties wrenched them apart. He sighed bitterly as the lift paused before descending below the surface, and watched the last sliver of sunlight disappear as he was swallowed up by the dark.
The Senate Guard, before their replacement by the Coruscant Guard in the early years of the war, had beautiful offices on the ground floor of the Senate building. With windows that let in sunlight and bantha leather chairs and good, fresh caf and warm pastries delivered twice a day. Fox had thought when the Senate Guard was dissolved for corruption that the Coruscant Guard would be allowed to take over their old offices. Instead, they had been converted into storage, and the Senate Security Division of the Coruscant Guard was forced into the abandoned warehouse and docks below the building, where the ventilation hadn’t worked in years and the only caf was GAR standard prepared next to a box of tasteless ration bars.
Fox pulled his helmet off as he stepped out of the lift into the dimly lit offices. A smattering of Guardsmen were left at the desks set as far away as possible from the makeshift hangar near the docking bay doors, talking quietly and reading through datapads and watching security footage on holoprojectors. Despite the bleak appearance of the “offices,” Fox always had a sense of comfort in the permacrete-walled dungeon. This was where he and his men were free to be themselves, away from the prying eyes of Senators and aides and lobbyists and visiting dignitaries. He inhaled the smell of freshly brewed caf and ozone and sweat that always reminded him of brotherhood and duty.
He spotted Commander Fist and Captain Garret at the commander’s desk. They had their helmets off and their heads put together over a datapad, tapping at the screen with a stylus as they argue-whispered with each other. Captain Garret looked up when Fox rapped his knuckles on the desk. Kriff, Garret was young. Fox wished some days he was still young like that. Fist smirked as he looked up at Fox, the expression pulling at old scars on his jaw.
“Did you talk to the chancellor?” Fist asked lowly.
“I have to give a speech at the address,” Fox said as an answer.
“Excellent,” Garret grinned. His smile made him look even younger, with bright eyes and smooth, scarless skin.
“Did you tell him about the increased Guard presence?” Fist asked.
“I informed him of increased perimeter security and probe droids, yes,” Fox said, barely containing his own grin. He was worried about terrorist activity. But he and the rest of the Guard had their own plan for the broadcast of the address, and so far, everything was settling into place exactly as they planned.
“Was he suspicious?” Garret asked.
Fox pursed his lips to keep his mischievous grin from spreading across his face. Fist and Garret did not hold back their own smiles, however. Fox took the datapad from Fist’s hand and scrolled through the plans so their glee wouldn’t crack his stoic exterior.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Fox replied breezily.
Four months before the anniversary
Jedi Council Meeting Chamber, Coruscant
Sunlight, rich with orange and pink hues of sunset, filtered through the windows that encircled the Jedi Council chamber and bathed the room in warm, golden light. The Jedi Masters sat in their chairs in a circle, the ones off-planet on battle fronts appearing via holocomm in various shades of static blue. Behind the Jedi, clone soldiers stood sentinel, wearing painted armor, their identical faces scarred and tattooed. Obi-Wan looked around at the Masters and clones alike. The Council had started allowing Clone Commanders into meetings when topics of the war were being discussed about six years into the war. Too many decisions during the early days had been made without the clones’ input, and too many mistakes were made because of it. Obi-Wan could hear Cody shifting behind him. It was always comforting to have his long-time friend and Commander at his side during meetings, but he wished the clones were at least offered chairs to sit if they needed.
“There’s been some talk of uprisings on the southern continent,” Master Rahmbdi said, his voice wavering through the holocomm transmission. He had one hand on his lightsaber as he spoke and sat on the edge of his seat as if he may need to leap up into battle at any moment. “We’re confident we can find a peaceful situation before any fighting breaks out.”
“I have extra troops being sent to the cities where there is the most unrest,” Commander Billit added.
“Careful, you must be,” Master Yoda mused, pointing his staff at the Clone Commander. “Sense more than unrest, I do. Danger, there may be.”
Commander Billit bobbed his head in understanding. “Yes, General.”
“I’ve heard reports that some of these uprisings are being funded by political extremist groups,” Master Mundi added. The war had not been kind to the Cerean. Exhaustion and stress had aged him, and a deep scar on his scalp stood out dark against his pale skin in the fading light. There were very few Jedi who did not have scars after nearly twenty years of war. The clones wore their scars proudly, but there were many Jedi who still saw them as a shameful failure to remain peacekeepers. “There have been several terrorist attacks here on Coruscant in the past few months, and across the galaxy as well. I would not dismiss the idea that these uprisings are connected in some way, Master Rahmbdi.”
“It may be wise to investigate,” Master Windu said. He sat cross-legged in his chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. His fingers were steepled in front of his chin, and he looked around the room with intense dark eyes. “Commander Fox here on Coruscant has a lot of experience chasing down extremists, we could utilize his expertise.”
“Speak with him, we should,” Master Yoda agreed. “Master Kenobi will lead the investigation with Commander Cody. Expert investigators, they are.”
Obi-Wan nodded and stroked his beard. Behind him, Cody shifted uncomfortably again. As much as Obi-Wan would tell himself they were chosen for this investigation because of Master Yoda’s faith in their detective skills, he and Cody both knew it was because they could not return to the active battle fronts after Cody’s injury, and were therefore grounded, for the most part, on Coruscant. It would, however, be nice to have something meaningful to do.
“Are there any other war reports?” Master Windu asked, his eyes falling on each of the Jedi Masters around the circular chamber. When no one spoke, he dismissed the Clone Commanders. Their meeting was about to shift to Jedi business, and as much as the clones’ insights were valuable on matters of war, the Council was firm that only Jedi should be allowed to hear Jedi business.
There was only the sound of shuffling feet and soft tapping of armor as the clones walked around the perimeter of the room and exited the chamber into the corridor. The Clone Commanders attending through holocomm stepped out of view, while the Masters stayed seated. Obi-Wan watched Cody limp his way around the chamber and out the doors into the corridor beyond. Fear and sadness gripped his chest. Cody’s injury had not healed correctly. Obi-Wan knew he was in a lot of pain. It was Obi-Wan’s fault he was hurt at all. He wished there was more he could do to help his friend. He could only stay by his side and hope he didn’t do anything foolish for a quick relief of the pain he was in.
“Master Yoda, how are you able to sense danger among the uprisings here on Scilla?” Master Rahmbdi asked curiously.
Yoda hummed darkly, closing his eyes. “Meditate for many hours, I have,” he answered, running a withered hand through what was left of his wispy hair. “Difficult, it is, to find patterns in the Force recently.”
There was an uncomfortable silence among the Jedi Masters. It had been several years since they were able to reach out and commune with the Force, although most of the Masters would never admit their lost connection out loud. Obi-Wan only ever felt the Force in small amounts, like seeing what was coming during battle, or a twinge of a feeling that something would happen, or the echo of a strong emotional feeling from someone close to him.
Aayla Secura crossed her arms and frowned. She and Obi-Wan made eye contact through the holocomm, sharing a silent knowing look. She also had trouble feeling the Force. She had expressed a suspicion to him that any Jedi who claimed they could feel the Force the same as before was outright lying. As Obi-Wan scanned the circle of masters, he saw a lot of posturing and uncomfortable shifting that suggested Aayla was probably right.
“Have any of you sensed malicious intent in any uprisings that is more than just war weariness?” Master Windu asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked around. Silence followed his question.
“If there is a new Sith supplying the insurgents, they are staying hidden from the Force,” Master Fralle said. Obi-Wan could practically feel Aayla roll her eyes. Maybe, through their friendship, he could feel the Force after all.
“Vigilant, you must stay,” Yoda mused. “Be mindful of the Force around you. Listen closer, we must.”
When Master Yoda finally dismissed them all after another several tense minutes of skirting around their lost connections to the Force, he beckoned Obi-Wan to him.
“Spoken with your former padawans recently, have you?” Yoda asked with raised eyebrows. Windu frowned slightly as he looked from Yoda to Kenobi expectantly.
“I haven’t spoken with Anakin since he left the Republic,” Obi-Wan replied. Sorrow tightened in his throat as he realized it had been twelve years since Anakin left.
“Involved in these extremist groups, could he be?” Yoda asked, one eyebrow raised.
“No, I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan frowned. If Yoda was truly reaching out through the Force, he should be able to sense Anakin’s presence. “He has a family to protect. I doubt he would risk that for political clout.”
“And what about Ahsoka? Have you talked to her?” Windu asked.
“The last time I spoke with Ahsoka, she was lying low on a moon in a neutral system.” Windu and Yoda exchanged a surprised look and he winced. He hadn’t meant to make Ahsoka’s decision not to return to the Jedi temple suspicious. “I also doubt she would be part of these extremist groups. Harming innocents is not something Ahsoka would do.”
“Investigate these uprisings, you shall,” Yoda nodded. “To the bottom of this, we will get.”
“Yes, Master,” Obi-Wan said with a small bow. “Do you have an idea where to start? Other than Commander Fox’s intelligence?”
Master Yoda nearly slumped in his seat as he shut his eyes tight and hummed. Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows at the elderly Jedi.
“Difficult to see this problem is,” Yoda said wearily.
“Are you alright, Master Yoda?” Obi-Wan asked. Master Windu flinched next to Obi-Wan. No one questioned Yoda. No one.
“Tired, I am. Rest, I must.” Yoda slid off his chair and leaned heavily on his staff as he moved to leave the chamber. Windu and Obi-Wan followed. Yoda stopped before opening the door and looked over his shoulder at his two companions.
“Afraid, I am, that the end of the Order is near.” he sighed and shook his head. He looked older and more exhausted than Obi-Wan had ever seen him. “If with the Force we lose touch, Jedi, how can we be, hm?”
Four months before the anniversary
Unnamed moon, Outer Rim
Rex woke with a jolt, pulled by a familiar rush of adrenaline from a nightmare. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes to find he was not staring down the barrel of a blaster, but instead staring at soft sunlight streaming through the exposed joists of a wooden ceiling above him. He blinked and remembered where he was, letting his heartbeat slow and his muscles relax as he reminded himself that he was safe, it was just a nightmare, he wasn’t facing death.
He closed his eyes again and focused on relaxing his body. His shoulders ached. But they ached in a good way. The ache reminded him that he was alive, his body was capable, and he was using it well. He stretched his arms up over his head, arching his back off the soft mattress. He let out a long, satisfying breath as he settled his hands down, reaching one over to the side of the bed where a familiar body should have been lying next to him. But his hand landed on empty linen sheets, warmed by the sun. He didn’t worry, though. Judging by the sunlight already streaming through the windows, he’d slept late.
Rex got up slowly. There was no need to rush. He could smell caf, the rich scent wafting through the open bedroom door from the kitchen. The little cottage was quiet. Peacefully quiet. Rex sat up in bed and stretched his neck and shoulders again. His armor hung on the wall in front of him, still dirty from his last mission. He needed to clean and repair it. He didn’t have the luxury of a GAR quartermaster anymore, and if anything happened to this set, it would be gone forever.
He rubbed his lower back and lifted his toes to stretch his calves as he walked to the little refresher off the tiny hallway that led from the bedroom to the kitchen. Their cottage wasn’t very big, made up only of the three rooms, but they had built it themselves, and of that Rex was incredibly proud. He didn’t bother to look at himself in the mirror above the sink while he washed his hands. He knew his face needed to be shaved. He knew his skin was dark from the sun and the short blonde hair on his head was peppered with gray.
His bedfellow wasn’t in the kitchen, but the caf was still steaming when Rex poured himself a mug. It was well-made. Rich and smooth. Better than the burnt and stale and bitter caf they had on GAR ships. Rex cooked breakfast using ingredients they had either grown in the garden outside or bought from the nearby town. He sipped his caf and hummed to himself, a catchy tune that had been on the HoloNet a lot recently. He wondered for a moment if it was being hummed absentmindedly by other clones across the galaxy as they went through their daily tasks. He remembered singing often with his men in the ‘freshers and while setting up camps and during downtime. The memory sent a pang of bittersweet nostalgia through his chest. As much as he was glad not to be fighting on the front lines anymore, he missed the closeness, the camaraderie of being centimeters from death on any given day, the fraternal bond of sharing the same face, the same trauma, the same life.
Not that Rex was out of the fight completely, it was just… different now. His missions weren’t GAR-approved, but they were just as important as any other mission he had ever run before, when he was still Captain Rex of the 501st battalion. If anything, he felt his missions now were more important. They were certainly more personal.
The door opened behind Rex as he scooped the breakfast he had made onto two plates. Eight years ago the sound would have had him jumping for his blaster, which he used to keep strapped to his hip at all times. But now he knew who it was. There was only one other person who had ever been inside the tiny cottage. He didn’t need to look up from plating their breakfasts to know her every curve and line and shade. He had known those details for nearly two-thirds of his life. And he had been intimately familiar with them for the last eight years.
Ahsoka hummed as Rex topped her mug with caf when she sat down at their little table. She was still wearing her bedclothes (an old GAR PT shirt of Rex’s that she had stolen) and a pair of black tights. She smelled like fresh outside air when he placed a soft kiss on her lips.
“Were you meditating?” Rex asked. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, and she leaned into the touch. Warmth bloomed in his chest as he stared into her deep blue eyes. In the war, they never could have touched like this. Even as Ahsoka got older and something more than professionalism began to grow between them, they never could have been together this way.
Ahsoka nodded to answer Rex’s question, and Rex settled into his chair across from her at the little kitchen table. He groaned as his lower back tensed in protest. He would need to stretch later. He’d overexerted himself on his last mission, and even though it had been several days since he returned, his body still ached from the strain.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Ahsoka said as she speared a couple of vegetables onto her fork. Rex shook his head.
“No. But I wouldn’t have minded anyway.”
Ahsoka smiled while she chewed. Her look was far away. Rex knew that look. He’d seen it many times over the twenty years he had known her. Something was on her mind. Something she couldn’t decide was worth sharing. Rex tapped her knee with his under the table.
“What is it?” he asked. As many times as he had seen that faraway frown, Rex always insisted she tell him what was on her mind. He felt closer to her after she shared her thoughts with him. She had grown into a thoughtful and private person, and it made Rex’s insides warm to know that he was the one she preferred to share her thoughts with. It still amazed him that she wanted to spend her life with him at all.
Ahsoka’s eyes focused on Rex again and she wrapped both hands around her mug as she thought about how to answer his question. Rex could wait. He had his whole life to wait. And he would do so willingly.
He wasn’t sure at what point he started to have these feelings for Ahsoka. When they were young, she was like a little sister to him. She was General Kenobi’s Padawan and an unofficial Commander of the 212th (though she spent plenty of time with Anakin and Rex and the 501st). She and Anakin used to get in all kinds of trouble, much to Cody and General Kenobi’s chagrin. Usually, Rex was there getting into trouble with them. Back when they were all young and carefree, at least.
His less professional feelings for her may have started when she was knighted, and she stood tall in front of Obi-Wan and the Jedi Council and—although it was not technically allowed—half of the 212th and 501st, with whom she had served for eight years. His chest had swelled with pride as she took her oaths to the Jedi Order. She wasn’t the little kid she was when he met her at the beginning of the war. Her montrals had grown taller and her body had grown stronger and whenever her gaze landed on Rex, he thought his heart might burst with happiness and love and friendship.
His feelings for her definitely grew after one of their harder battles as they held each other to grieve and decompress in Rex’s quarters so the men wouldn’t see her fall apart. He never minded holding her in his arms, even when she grew tall and he couldn’t hold her as securely as he could when she was small. He never minded. He would rather hold her for his entire life than let her think for one moment that she wasn’t worth comforting.
But what really solidified their growing attachment to each other was the two years they spent cooped up in the T-6 Jedi shuttle, bouncing from planet to planet, searching for Balance in the Force. After being knighted and fighting in the war for two years as the Commander of the 501st, Ahsoka realized she needed to find her own path. She needed to find Balance. And she couldn’t do it while fighting a war. She had asked Rex to come with her, to protect her. If she hadn’t asked, Rex would have insisted anyway. And if Rex hadn’t insisted, Obi-Wan would have.
If there was a specific time that Rex could point at and say, “that’s when things changed,” it was when they landed on this rock eight years ago. Ahsoka was tired. She couldn’t feel the Force anymore. She reached out and it wasn’t there. What she didn’t know was whether it was the Force that was gone, or if she was broken. She sobbed in Rex’s arms as they camped at the base of the long-forgotten Jedi temple. Rex comforted her the only way he knew how, by wrapping her in his arms and letting her sob and scream into his chest.
For three days they camped at the temple while Ahsoka mourned her lost connection. Rex had never felt so helpless as he had those three days. They set out to find a better campsite, and after fourteen days of flying and camping on windswept cliff sides and waterlogged forest floors, they finally found a suitable place to stay. And in that time, it had become apparent they were no longer just friends.
Ahsoka always claimed they would stay only until she could reconnect with the Force. They would stay until she could figure out how to open the temple. But it had been eight years since they landed on the moon. And in those eight years they had built a home, and a garden, and a kitchen filled with the smell of hot caf and soft kisses and a million unspoken feelings. Despite the lingering guilt that they should be with the rest of the clones and Jedi fighting the war, Rex liked his life here. He liked the peace and quiet. He liked the new missions they ran and the work they were doing. And most of all he liked falling asleep with Ahsoka in his arms, knowing she was safe.
Ahsoka sipped on her caf and looked at Rex. He smiled under her gaze, warm contentment settling over him. He ran his fingers along her arm, settling his hand just below her wrist so he could rub circles over her wrist bone with his thumb. She took his hand in hers and entwined their fingers together. Her palms were calloused not just from blasters and lightsabers, but also from gardening and housework and speeder maintenance. The little frown line appeared again on her brow.
“What is it?” he asked again, softer this time. When she looked at him, her eyes had an intensity that made his gut flip, a warning and a fresh wave of excitement all at once, like hearing blaster fire in the distance after a long night of restless waiting. He squeezed her fingers to encourage her, fear and curiosity wound tight in his chest.
“I think…” she began carefully, squeezing Rex’s fingers back, “I think I connected with the Force.”