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enigmaticexplorer · 3 hours ago

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Men who are careful and both self-aware and aware of others are my jam. I like to think of this as Fox initially doing this because it's his job, and then he grows interested with the gallery because it's a change in pace from his 9-5, and then he realizes he likes spending time with the Reader, and then he's all in but she's hesitant so he's willing to hold back, reassess, and figure out the best move forward. It's like a puzzle to him (and we know that he loves puzzles!).

Sometimes I think that if I were to receive that kind of attention I’d either freeze from fear, laugh at the incredulity or cry from the humiliation or of overwhelming joy .

Haha to be fair, the Reader isn't even aware of his attraction, so it's much easier to spend time with someone when you're convinced you're merely acquaintances (possibly friends, though the Reader would argue that's a stretch)!

Let Me Love You - Part II

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

General Summary. An opportunity to expand your grandmother’s business brings you to Coruscant and a chance-encounter with Commander Fox. Friendship is your intent. But feelings grow, and with them, renewed fears.

Pairing. Commander Fox x female!OC

General Warnings. Self-esteem issues; intimacy issues; trust issues; explicit sexual content.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Word Count. 4.1K

True to his word, Commander Fox returned each day to your gallery. The dedication shocked you considering the man was a commander—the commander—who held an important and well-respected position in the Department of Security. (You researched him after one of his visits.)

For the first three weeks, each visit followed a similar schedule.

Commander Fox appeared in the afternoon during your slow hour. You showed him the sword, locked away and safely secured. Few words were exchanged. A question here. A question there. And then he was on his way, your “See you tomorrow, Commander Fox” echoing in the silence of his departure.

The visits lasted no more than fifteen minutes.

On the 31st of Yelona, Primeday, Commander Fox ignored the purpose of his visit to watch you clean a partially reconstructed sculpture on loan from a prestigious museum in the Inner Rim.

Secluded in the backroom, a bright fluorescent light shining upon the sculpture, you flourished your brush across the statue’s broken arm. Dust drifted to the floor in lazy bouts of excess.

“It’s not that exciting,” you said, voice muffled by your mask. Adjusting your goggles, you bent closer, using a pair of tweezers to extract a stubborn piece of dirt. “But it’s necessary.”

“I’m impressed.” At your disbelieving scoff, Commander Fox leaned back in the chair he’d claimed. His thighs spread wide and his arms crossed his chest. A comfortable, relaxed position that told you he intended to stay for many minutes. “It’s true. That thing looks ‘bout ready to collapse into a pile of dust.”

“It’s got some life yet.” You tossed him a severe look. “And you’re impressed far too easily.”

“I’m a simple man” was his casual response.

The minutes trickled past like the distilled water you used to rinse away remnants of cleaning chemicals. Commander Fox served as a captive audience. It…surprised you. The work was dull. Truly. And yet he didn’t seem to mind its repetitive mundanity.

“How’d you get into the business?”

The commander’s question encouraged you to remove your goggles and gloves, lower your mask, and perch atop a nearby table. You’d been at it for more than an hour. A break was warranted.

“My grandmother.” You took a long sip from your reusable water bottle. “She started as a historian at the museum on our planet. She was a curator, and she travelled to different places, learning about different artifacts and cultures, growing her connections with private collectors and well-funded museums.”

“Is she alive?”

“No. She passed away two years ago.” You pushed away a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. “She left me a lot of money (she and my grandfather were well off) and asked me to take over her business. So I did.”

Commander Fox’s fingers drummed an unrecognizable beat against his armored forearm. “You’re not from Coruscant.” It wasn’t a question but you still nodded. “How’d you end up here?”

“My grandmother had talked about moving her business to Coruscant,” you said. “But the War derailed her plans. By the time it was over, she was too sick to move. I promised to oversee her dream.”

“It’s not your dream.”

Your eyebrows pinched together. “It is. I like this work.”

A slight press of his lips was his only reveal that he didn’t entirely believe you. “How long have you been out here?”

“Two years. I moved right after her funeral.”

“And right after the War concluded,” Commander Fox remarked.

“It was finally safe,” you said with a shrug. Pushing yourself to your feet, you stretched your neck, eyeing the commander who remained seated. “I plan to hire an owner after five years so I can return home.”

Commander Fox frowned. “You’re not staying?”

“I don’t like the city.” You glanced at the painting of unfamiliar constellations, hanging where’d you left it to dry after recoating its frame. “I miss the stars.”

“What are they like?”

The question was curious, quiet, and you stared at Commander Fox dubiously. “What? The stars?” His chin dipped. “You’ve never…”

“On Kamino—where I was raised—the city’s lights were too bright at night.” He raked a hand through his hair. Lazily mussed, a single curl caressed his forehead. “And here—you can’t see anything but the traffic lights.”

It was a sobering thought—knowing some people had never seen the stars before. You’d never considered stargazing a privilege.

“They’re…beautiful,” you said. Commander Fox was watching you, so still he resembled the statue. “They’re different colors, and it’s fun trying to map the constellations. But they’re so easy to ignore if you’re not paying attention. But when you do notice them…it’s like nothing else matters.”

Commander Fox listened with a slight slant to his head; like he was concentrating.

“And when you’re out on the farm and the house lights are turned off, you can see thousands—millions—of them.” You smiled smally. “They remind you that you’re not so alone.”

“It sounds like quite the sight.”

“It is.” You fiddled with the clasps of your lab coat. “You should go somewhere to see them. It’s worth the time and cost. Trust me.”

Commander Fox’s gaze didn’t waver as he murmured, “I’ll consider it.”

On the 11th of Relona, Primeday, Commander Fox dragged himself into your gallery with a weary glaze to his eyes and a rigid set to his shoulders. He offered a stilted nod in greeting. He checked the sword in silence. And he gave a curt nod in farewell.

The sight of him—so rough around the edges—made you frown.

“Do you want some water?”

Commander Fox faltered with his hand on the door’s panel. “Got anything stronger?”

“This is a gallery,” you deadpanned, “not a cantina.”

“Nothing? Seriously?”

“I do have some saline—”

The commander shook his head, wiping away his amusement with a fist. He ventured to your counter and, when you motioned to the backroom, he stepped away. In his absence, you returned to your task, documenting details about the vase a client dropped off for an appraisal.

Commander Fox reappeared a minute later. Gulping down water, he surveyed the vase.

“Any news?” you asked.

“Couldn’t tell you, even if there was.”

Your exasperated sniff led to him leaning against the counter; you studied the old blaster marks darkening parts of his armor. He always kept a clean, professional appearance, so the marks must’ve been impossible to remove.

“Why did you stay in the military?” You regarded him with aloof intrigue. “You could’ve left and done something different. Anything, from what I’ve heard.”

Commander Fox set aside his glass. “I stayed for my men.”

“Why?”

“I’m willing to fight for them.” He scanned your gallery, seemingly lost to his thoughts. “I…didn’t trust the candidates recommended. I knew what needed to be done. And I’d earned my men’s trust. I was their best option.”

Your attention slid to the report you were typing. “Have things improved in the last two years?”

“The Department is receiving more funding these days. Which means I can train my men better.” Commander Fox settled his eyes on yours. “I’ve chosen my replacement. And I’m training him to take over.”

“You’re not staying in the Department?”

“No.” He smiled. “I’ll do what is necessary to protect our civilians and my men. But…it’s been five years.”

You blinked your surprise. “You joined the War in its first year?”

“Served all three years.” Absentmindedly, his finger traced the rim of his glass. “The War finished right when my aging gene stopped working. I was twenty-six.”

“Five years of War-related work…” Your eyes traced the wrinkles around his eyes. “That must be tiring.”

“There are some rewarding parts.”

“Like what?”

“I get to take an hour each day looking at archaic shit.”

You broke into an amused smile. “I’m glad to know it’s not a waste of your time.”

“Never.” His head tilted, a loose curl grazed his temple, and he grinned. “I look forward to it each day.”

On the 19th of Relona, Zhellday, Commander Fox set a flimsibook on your counter, opened to a page halfway through, and retrieved a permanent stencil from his utility belt. He hunched over the ‘book.

Nonplussed by his unusual behavior, you finished the report you were typing, updated your schedule with another donor meeting, cleaned down the counter (avoiding Commander Fox’s spot), and then approached.

A quick glance at the page revealed nine boxes filled with nine, smaller boxes. There were seventeen printed numbers scattered throughout the small boxes. Commander Fox was filling in the rest. Only a handful remained.

“It’s ukodus.” He raised his gaze to yours. “I do one each morning but ran out of time today.”

You scanned his nearly indecipherable writing. “It’s a puzzle.”

“I like problem-solving.” Commander Fox stenciled in another number. Distractedly, he said, “I like taking things apart. Figuring out how they work. And then putting them back together. It’s even more satisfying when I can improve their design.”

“And yet you work in security analysis.”

He grew still. “Only for the time being.” A frown of deep concentration wrinkled his forehead. “But I’ve been taking engineering courses since the War ended. Mechanical and civil mostly.”

“And you complete a puzzle every morning?”

He gave a short nod. “I’m good at it. Better than my brothers.”

Your scoff was humored. “I should’ve known you’re the competitive type.”

“You should see me with a knife.”

“Kitchen or combat?”

“Both.” He flashed a grin and completed the puzzle, closing the ‘book. “What about you? Ever held a knife?”

“I’m proficient in the kitchen.” You felt yourself smile. “But I’ve never used a knife in combat. It seems like a unique skillset only a few can master.”

“I underwent specific training for it.” Commander Fox tapped the top of his ‘book. “My first day at training, the instructor came at me with a vibroblade and slashed open my shoulder.” Your eyes widened. “He said I was lucky he didn’t go for my exposed throat.” His chuckle was rueful. “It was a brutal class. But those lessons kept me alive.”

Your eyes fell to his left shoulder—the one he’d unconsciously shifted. “Do you still have a scar?”

“I do.” He picked up his ‘book and pocketed his stencil. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

“Your knife skills or the scar?”

He winked. “Whichever you want.”

On the 25th of Relona, Benduday, Commander Fox placed a travel cup and small container on your counter. The scent of lightly roasted caf and a whiff of pumpkin carried through the air.

“What’s this?”

Commander Fox slid the travel cup closer to you. “Thought you might want something after your busy morning.”

“That was…thoughtful of you.” Discomfort tightened the muscles along your back, and you grimaced. “But I don’t drink caf.”

He let out an amused breath. “Knew I should’ve gone with the tea.”

“I don’t like tea, either.”

He blinked. “What the hell do you like?”

“…Water.”

Commander Fox squinted. “Is that a joke?”

“No.” With a rictus of apology, you pushed the travel cup back toward him. “I have mundane tastes, apparently.”

“I think your tastes are exceptional.” He waved a hand to encompass the gallery and then looked back at you. “ ‘Cept when it comes to drinks.”

Your eyebrow quirked in false disdain. “If your tastes are so refined, what’s your favorite drink?”

“Dark caf—no creamer—in the morning.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “And a strong whiskey in the evening. Neat.”

It fit him. And yet: “Why whiskey?”

He hesitated for a prolonged moment. “I…spent most of my life having decisions made for me.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “When I got here, I finally had the freedom to choose things for myself. I refused to half-ass it.” He shrugged. “I assessed everything to determine what I like. And I did the same with alcohol. Studied the different types. Tried them out. And then chose the one I liked the best. It happened to be whiskey.”

A smile began to form. “What else did you study?”

“Colognes.” He rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. “I wanted a scent just for myself.”

“What did you choose?”

Rather than answer, he bent forward and angled his head to the side. An invitation.

Setting your forearms on the counter, you leaned toward him. Your inhale was tentative. A faint whiff of cedar emanated from him; warm and woody. Blended into it was a hint of sweat.

“That’s…” You blinked a few times. “Very nice smelling.”

Commander Fox chuckled. “Glad you approve.”

“I did the same thing when I turned twenty,” you said. “My grandmother took me shopping and told me to pick whatever I wanted.”

It was his turn to stretch across the counter; his armored forearm nestled beside yours. He lowered his face to your neck.

“Rose?” he supplied.

“And jasmine.”

He inhaled deeply. A low humming noise reverberated in the back of his throat. You met his gaze and smiled; amused by his reaction. But your smile quickly faded. Your faces were close enough that it breached professionalism. You pulled away.

Slowly, Commander Fox straightened, and then he slid the container across the counter. “A pumpkin muffin. Enjoy it while I check on the sword.”

“Thank you.” You didn’t move to open the box. “I’ll eat it later.”

“Your next client doesn’t come in for another hour.” His smirk was teasing. “I won’t tell anyone you’re eating on the job. Our secret.”

Placing the box on a shelf beneath your counter, you pinned him with a flat smile. “I’ll eat it later.”

Commander Fox regarded you for a silent moment; long enough, you grew wary.

“All right.” He rapped his knuckles against the counter. “You ever heard of 79s?”

“The clone bar?”

He nodded. “There’s a celebration tonight. It’s an open invitation.”

Shocked, you couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, but clubbing isn’t really my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

Commander Fox’s casual demeanor was belied by the intensity of his gaze. An intensity that left you feeling oddly bare. Vulnerable. Exposed to his assessment and subsequent judgment. It set you on edge.

“It doesn’t matter.” An uncaring shrug succeeded your statement: dismissive, cold. “I’m not the interesting type.”

On the 32nd of Relona, Centaxday, Commander Fox found you in the backroom, standing beside a sink, cleaning a diamond ring. He studied the ring with a distasteful frown.

“Yours?” he asked casually.

You chuckled. “A client’s.”

“Ah.” Commander Fox surveyed the other pieces of jewelry methodically placed on the counter: a silver necklace, opal earrings, a jade bracelet. “In some cultures, partners wear rings to symbolize their commitment to one another.”

“I know,” you said. “I have my grandmother’s wedding ring.”

He glanced at your hand. “You’re not wearing it.”

“I don’t like rings.” Your attention returned to the diamond. “They make me feel claustrophobic.”

His silence felt calculated. “And if your partner gave you one?”

“I wouldn’t wear it.”

Commander Fox leaned over your shoulder, appraising the ring with a less severe expression. “Is there a partner?” he asked quietly, carefully. “In your life?”

You stiffened at the question. At the unease and insecurity it invoked.

Men weren’t interested in you. It was a simple fact you’d accepted over the years. And yet, no matter how often you brushed it aside, pretended it didn’t affect you, the hurt cut deeper than you cared to admit.

You longed for love: to love, and to be loved. But you were too independent. Too emotionless. Too serious.

Undeserving.

Unlovable.

Will never be enough.

“I don’t have anyone.” It sounded vulnerable, even to your ears, and you scowled. Commander Fox was staring at you. Far too scrutinous for your liking. You hastily recovered. “What about you? Do you have anyone?”

“No.” He tapped a finger. “My brother’s married. He’s…happy.”

“You sound surprised by that.”

“It wasn’t a possibility in the War,” he said with a blasé shrug. “But now…” His voice grew distant. “Everything’s changed. I’m still adjusting.”

“Is that something you’re interested in?” You sought his gaze, surprised to find it already on yours. “Getting married?”

He searched your face and then looked away. “Yeah. It is.”

On the 3rd of Welona, Taungsday, Commander Fox startled you from the book you were reading.

His silent entrance and equally silent approach caught you off guard. His gruff “What are you doing?”, murmured right next to your ear, made you flinch.

He arched a brow, unimpressed. “You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people.” Your glare lacked vehemence though your heart continued to flail as it calmed itself. “How did you get in here so quietly?”

“Training.” He winked at your unamused scowl and then extended his head to your book. “Care to explain?”

Gently, you closed the cover. “This is my favorite artifact.”

Commander Fox inspected the silver runes embedded in the book’s leather cover. “Out of everything in here, this is your favorite?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a book.”

Your smile was undeterred. “A real book. With paper.”

The commander studied the black cover for a pent breath and then met your gaze.

Ignoring his lack of excitement, you opened the book to a chapter. Elegant, silver runes titled the chapter; more runes—much smaller and less graceful—spread across the page in faded, black ink.

“Physical books are rare to find these days, and they’re usually filled with flimsi.” You skimmed a finger across the corner of the page. “But this is paper. The type made from a tree. Feel it.”

Bemused, Commander Fox removed one of his black gloves. Long fingers, scarred knuckles, a hint of ink wrapped around his wrist that disappeared beneath his armor.

Carefully, he rubbed the corner of the worn page between his thumb and finger. A slow, curious touch. A touch with practiced ease and control.

“I bet you’ve never felt paper before,” you remarked.

“I haven’t.” Restrained amusement danced across his mouth. “How old is it?”

“Flimsi became the norm about twenty-thousand years ago, so it most likely predates that time,” you said.

Commander Fox removed his opposite glove and, with a gentleness you appreciated, he ran both hands over the book’s cover. He lifted it for closer inspection. “Why’s it your favorite?”

“Because it belongs to an era we’ll never return to.” You folded your arms to your chest, rubbing your collarbone. “Technological advancements and cultural progression are important to society. But sometimes…they’re too much. We’re so focused on improving our galaxy that we don’t stop to wonder if certain things need improvement. We don’t stop to wonder if our technology has gone too far. Hell, we have warships that can destroy entire cities from space. What comes next? A planet killer?”

Replacing the book atop the counter, Commander Fox faced you.

“I think we can learn from nature,” you said. “It evolves over hundreds, thousands, millions of years. Its change is gradual. It’s patient in its endeavors.” You looked at the stained-glass windows. “Did you know that below all that metal out there there’s a mountain range?”

Commander Fox followed your gaze. “I’ve heard the story.”

“Humanity strives for forward progress but our progress is destructive. It’s greedy; it’s power-hungry. We want nothing more than to conquer. We’re killing ourselves to do it. And throughout it all, nature watches us and laughs.” You lowered your hands to the book. “Because death, itself, is nature’s ruling hand. And we’ll never be able to conquer it.”

“Darkly poetic.”

“I prefer realistic.”

“Nihilistic.”

You shook your head with an exasperated grin.

“It all comes back to feeling insignificant,” Commander Fox said. “Still don’t think you’re memorable?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Do you think you’re memorable?”

“Do you think I am?” he teased quietly.

“Calling a bunch of historical artifacts ‘junk’ does leave a lasting impression.”

“I never said the ‘junk’ part aloud.”

“Technicality.”

Commander Fox rested a hip against the counter; his expression turned solemn.

“In the future,” he murmured, “when I’m old, people will look at me and remember the War. They won’t know what I did. But they’ll remember the battles and the destruction and the fear. All those terrible things will always be connected to my face.” He paused. “I ‘spose you’re right. It’s better to be forgotten. But I don’t have that luxury.”

You shifted between your feet, eyeing him. “Is that why you still work for the Department? To make history on your own terms?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I already told you my reasoning.”

At his stiff tone, you grew rigid, and after a moment of tense silence, you cleared your throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander.”

“No. I didn’t—” He pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a long-suffering sigh. When his eyes returned to yours, they were heavy with unspoken intent. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Adjusting the hem of your skirt, you waved a dismissive hand. “It was personal, and I shouldn’t have pried—”

“I don’t mind your prying.” Commander Fox braced his hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Please don’t stop.”

The lowly lilt to his voice, the quiet plea in his words, gave you pause. And as you studied him, something warm fluttered behind your ribcage, like the wings of a butterfly tickling your bones.

The sensation was so unusual, so discomfiting, you massaged your chest. Commander Fox followed the movement. Your hand collapsed to your side.

“Why do you visit me each day?” you asked quietly. “Why not send someone else? This work is far beneath your rank.”

Commander Fox tucked his helmet beneath his elbow and straightened to his full height. “Maybe it’s not the work I’m interested in.” With that, he strode out of your gallery.

On the 10th of Welona, Benduday, Commander Fox scrutinized the dark amber liquid corked within the melted glass sculpture of a phoenix. Cheedoan whiskey—a bottle that cost more than your annual rent payment.

“I like the sculpture,” you remarked.

Commander Fox scoffed. “This is considered the galaxy’s best whiskey and you’re only interested in the sculpture?”

“The craftsmanship is beautiful.” You traced a finger along the phoenix’s spread wings, individual feathers darkly colored by the whiskey. “Look at the detail in the bird’s eyes and beak, and the layering of each feather—”

“You’re unbelievable.” The look on Commander Fox’s face could only be described as fond exasperation. He bent his head toward the bottle’s cork and inhaled. “Your client has good taste.”

“I’ll be sure to let her know.”

Commander Fox angled the bottle in your direction, and when you initially refused, he sighed. “Give it a try. You’ll like the scent.”

With a doubtful frown, you reached for the bottle and inhaled.

Hints of vanilla.

A spicy draft.

Smoky undertones.

It reminded you of the warm, earthy aroma you scented on Commander Fox.

Your eyes listed toward him, and with your faces this close, you had an opportunity to examine his features: earthy brown eyes bracketed by long, black lashes; a splash of hazel near the irises, complemented by equally dark brows; a feeble pink blushing light brown lips; rounded jaw and faintly wrinkled forehead.

As you studied him, a horrifying realization dawned on you.

Commander Fox was…attractive.

A delectable blend of inquisitive intellect and patient confidence combined with a hardened physicality softened by winsome features.

It was such a disconcerting thought you immediately banished it.

“If only whiskey tasted as good as it smells,” you said. Commander Fox rolled his eyes, his shoulder touching yours. You ignored it. “You’ll have to let me know if you like it.”

He stilled. “You’re not giving—”

“I don’t drink, you know that,” you said. “And as much as I love the phoenix, the whiskey will go to waste sitting on one of my shelves. It deserves to be enjoyed.”

Commander Fox’s eyes wandered across your face: familiar in their shrewdness, yet alien in their soft reflection.

“Thank you.” His voice was low, a bit rough around the edges. “I… Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

His throat bobbed as he scanned the bottle. “I have an update.”

The change in conversation surprised you. “Oh?”

“I’m extending my visits.” He spoke in a quiet, deep murmur that had the odd effect of warming your skin to a pleasant heat. “We’ve received some new information. I want to keep an eye on…things here.”

“Anything I should be worried about?” He shook his head and you exhaled your relief. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander—”

“One other thing.” He pressed his shoulder into yours. A finger drifted across your wrist; a mere brushing of skin. “Call me Fox.”

For several seconds, you searched his gaze and then smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Fox.”

Masterlist | Part I - Part III

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enigmaticexplorer · 1 day ago

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Slow burn progression is always my preference - both in attraction and feelings - so you know I had to draw it out here :)

Dude, chill, there are still 3 years before then, you can change her mind. But he was so caught off guard, like he did NOT like the thought of her leaving!

This made me chuckle. It is three years, but I like to think that when Fox sets his mind to something, he can be patient but also prefers things to work out in the short term (because he's not used to planning for the long term since he never thought he'd survive this long).

Omg. I about lost it when I read that. I pictured it, and it was delicious. Fox! You sly...fox!

That was one of my favorite parts to write! I don't envision it as a flirtatious moment, simply them being comfortable enough to be playful. And that's why I like it: they're both smiling, and they're comfortable, and they're simply happy to be hanging out together.

He asked! He actually outright asked her!

This is the moment where it's clear to me that 1) Fox has been harboring serious feelings for a bit, and 2) he wants to make a move. But he's holding back because he doesn't have all the puzzle pieces together just yet.

she pulled back, but he was persistent without being pushy.

YES. This is the emphasis: he's persistent without being pushy. It's really important to me that that comes across. Men who put in the effort to pursue a woman but without encroaching on her boundaries are Very Important to me.

Thank you for sharing ALL of your thoughts with me! I love reading them!