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jetii · 19 days ago

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Event Horizon

Chapter Twenty-Six: Endurance

Chapter WC: 8,685

A/N: This chapter was supposed to just be about the boys, but I couldn't help but throw in a little extra treat. Also I'm going to put up a poll about the cover of this fic today, please vote if you can!

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Hyperspace, 21 BBY

After a whirlwind of meetings and introductions, and far too much talking, you were finally aboard the Oracle and on your way to Bothawui. You’d never in your life met so many people in such a short time, and while you were sure some would argue that was part of being a general, you couldn't help but feel drained and exhausted by the constant barrage of faces and names.

Thankfully, Booker was there to help, acting as a buffer between you and the rest of the world. He was surprisingly good at it, keeping everyone at arm's length while still making it seem like you were the friendliest and most approachable general anyone had ever met. It was a skill you had no idea he possessed, and one you were more than happy to take advantage of. The men respected him, and as far as you could tell, they didn't resent your presence. Even if you were starting to become undeniably cranky and snappy.

After a day and a half, however, things had finally begun to settle down, and the routine had started to take hold. You were still meeting and greeting and making friends, but the constant barrage of faces was finally becoming manageable, and the ship's crew and officers had stopped jumping at the chance to shake your hand. And while the men were still eager to introduce themselves, the novelty of a new general had begun to wear off. Which was a relief, considering how little sleep you'd gotten in the last forty-eight hours.

"What about green?" Booker asks, his gaze never leaving the datapad in his hands. "That would look good."

You give a noncommittal hum from somewhere in your chest and shift in your seat, trying desperately to get comfortable. The two of you have been in the conference room for the better part of the evening, discussing everything from supplies to battle strategies. And while you were enjoying his company and the chance to talk, it's getting late, and your body is screaming at you to rest.

“That’s fine,” you mumble, stifling a yawn.

“Or maybe something darker. Black?”

“Great.”

You close your eyes and lean back, the soft whirring of the ventilation system a welcome distraction. You listen to the gentle rhythm, the sound slowly fading into the background as your thoughts begin to drift.

The last couple of days had gone by in a blur, and it was only now that you were finally able to slow down and catch your breath. There had been a dozen meetings, a hundred questions, and a thousand decisions, and it was starting to take its toll. You hadn't realized exactly how much planning went into war until now, and the grey hairs starting to sprout from Obi-Wan's temples are beginning to make a lot more sense to you.

Your thoughts turn to him, and you can't help but wonder how he's doing. The two of you had spoken a few times, the conversation focused more on your respective divisions and the status of the war than anything else. You’d tried to keep the tone light, avoiding the topic of what had happened between the two of you. But even the briefest mention of Rex had caused a flash of sadness to pass over his face, and a twinge of guilt had twisted your gut.

The two of you were struggling, but both of you were trying your best to move past it. That was all that mattered. At least for now.

As for Rex, you'd messaged him a few times since you left, but the two of you had yet to have a chance to comm each other. The men had kept you busy, and he'd had his hands full with the 501st. As much as it pained you to admit, the distance was probably for the best. At least until you figured out exactly what it was that you were doing. Or rather, what it was that you were not doing.

“…And I was thinking I could paint a giant target on my armor and put myself on the front line. What do you think about that, sir?"

You blink, snapping back to the present, the image of Rex's face fading away. You glance at Booker to see he's staring at you, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Uh, sorry, what was that?" you ask. Booker lets out a dramatic sigh and sets his datapad on the table.

"I was just saying how nice it is to have a general who listens," he drawls. "Really pays attention to every single word."

"I'm listening," you mumble, stifling a yawn.

"Right," he replies. He crosses his arms, his gaze never leaving your face. "You're tired."

"I'm fine," you tell him. The lie is weak, even to your own ears, and you let out a frustrated groan, running a hand over your face. "Okay, yeah, I'm tired. Sorry. I just—"

"Need some sleep?" Booker finishes, his voice gentle. You shake your head, rubbing the exhaustion out of your eyes.

"No, no," you mutter. "It's fine. We can keep going."

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and gives you a look. It’s not quite a glare, but it's close, and it’s so like Rex that it's startling. For a second, you're thrown back to the night in your quarters, Rex kneeling in front of you, the two of you staring at each other as he gently coaxed you into letting him take care of you. Then his words, his reminder to focus on your men and not your demons, ring through your mind. And suddenly, you're feeling a little less stubborn. A little more open to listening.

"Fine," you grumble, crossing your arms. "What do you want?"

"For you to get some rest," he says. You frown, and he holds up a hand, his expression shifting to a stern look. "Sir, you've been up for 16 hours.”

“I haven’t—“

“I’ve been keeping track," he tells you, cutting you off. "And as much as I enjoy your company, the men need you well-rested and alert. Not half-dead and sleep deprived."

Your jaw clenches, the urge to argue rising, but you force it back down. You know he's right, and the fact that he's willing to call you out on it, no matter how gently, is a testament to his character. And as much as you hate to admit it, you can feel the fatigue beginning to creep in, the desire to curl up and hide tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

You give a small sigh, and he flashes you a smile.

"Alright," you relent. "I'll turn in."

You stand and stretch, letting out a soft groan. Your spine pops, and you roll your shoulders, working the kinks out of your neck. You can't help but feel a little embarrassed by the fact that Booker has been keeping tabs on your habits, and while part of you wants to call him out for it, the other part of you is grateful for the concern. And you suppose that a man who's always looking out for his brothers will most likely be just as vigilant about looking out for his superior officers. Just as Rex was. Is. Will be.

The thought of the Captain sends a stab of pain through your chest, and you grimace, forcing the memory aside.

"Are you sure there isn't anything else?" you ask. You gesture towards the datapad on the table. "There's still a lot we have to go through."

"I'm sure. Besides, I'd rather you be well-rested for drills tomorrow."

You frown, the comment catching you off guard. "Drills? Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he says as he stands and walks around the table, stopping beside you. "Figured it'd be a good idea. Get a feel for the men. See how they perform."

"I don't—"

"You're their commanding officer, sir," he interrupts, and he rests a hand on your shoulder. "You need to know what they're capable of. So do I. And the best way to find out is by putting them through their paces. That way, we can make sure they're prepared."

His tone is light, almost teasing, but his words are serious, and there's a glint in his eye that leaves no room for argument. And as much as you want to protest, the truth is that he's right. You need to see the men in action, to test their abilities. To see where their strengths and weaknesses lie. And the only way to do that is by testing them yourself.

You let out a resigned sigh and offer a small, grateful smile.

"I guess I'm gonna need to get some rest, huh?"

"That's the plan," Booker says. His hand slides off your shoulder, and he reaches over, picking up the datapad. "C’mon. I’ll walk you back to your quarters."

The two of you start down the hall, and Booker continues to fill you in on the details, his words fading into the background as your mind starts to drift. You're barely listening, and the only thing you can focus on is the gentle rumble of his voice and the sound of his footsteps beside you.

He seems different somehow, a little more serious, a little more thoughtful. You can tell the reality of command is settling over him, and while you're sure he's struggling with the responsibility, you can't help but be impressed by his composure. It's as if his personality has shifted, the uncertain, reckless cadet morphing into a more serious, responsible soldier. He's taking his role seriously, and the thought is comforting.

As the two of you round the corner, your comm chimes, the sudden sound making you jump. You stop and pull the device out, checking the message.

Rex: Hey. How's it going?

Your heart stutters in your chest, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at the screen. Then, with a sharp breath, you type out a response, your fingers flying across the keys.

You: Good. Busy. Tired. But good. You?

Rex’s answer comes almost immediately.

Rex: Same. Glad to hear it's going well.

There's a pause, and a new message appears.

Rex: Can we talk?

Your heart leaps into your throat, and a flood of emotions wash over you. Excitement, anxiety, fear, anticipation, they all crash over you, a tidal wave threatening to drown you.

You type out a response, hesitating before hitting send.

You: Of course.

Another message pops up.

Rex: Comm me in 15 minutes. Don't forget.

You let out a quiet laugh, and you glance up, realizing Booker is staring at you, a small smile on his face. You flush, embarrassed, and you slide the comm back into your pocket, clearing your throat.

"Sorry," you mutter. "That was a friend."

"A friend, huh?" Booker asks, his tone teasing.

"Yes, a friend," you reply, giving him a sharp look.

"Well, your friend should have waited until morning," he tells you. "You need rest."

"He knows," you say, your voice softer than intended. Booker raises an eyebrow, and he glances at the pocket where your comm is sitting. Then his expression changes, a knowing smile spreading across his face.

"Ah," he says. "I get it."

You feel your cheeks burn, and you turn, continuing down the hall. He's following, his strides long and easy. You can feel his eyes on the back of your head, and the urge to snap at him is strong. But the truth is, you don't have the energy, and you're too focused on the promise of speaking with Rex to care.

You turn down another corridor, and Booker falls back into step beside you. He’s still watching you, but he doesn't speak, and you're thankful for the respite. You need a few moments to compose yourself, to collect your thoughts, to calm the flurry of emotions running rampant through your body.

Finally, you come to a stop in front of the door leading to your quarters, and you turn, looking up at him.

"Thank you," you tell him, your tone sincere. He grins, and he gives a slight nod.

"You're welcome, sir," he says. "Get some rest. Try not to stay up too late."

"What—"

Booker turns on his heel, waving a hand over his shoulder. "Have a good night, sir. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow."

Before you can respond, he's gone, disappearing around the corner, leaving you standing alone in the empty hallway. For a moment, all you can do is stare, and it's only the sudden chime of the chronometer that snaps you out of it. You pull the comm out of your pocket and unlock the door, stepping into your quarters and typing a quick message.

You: I'm here. Are you ready?

A response appears a few seconds later.

Rex: Whenever you are.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the pounding of your heart, and you tap the button on the screen, connecting the call. There's a second of static, and then the sound of Rex's voice fills the room, his tone warm and familiar.

"Hi."

The single word is enough to make you smile, and you settle on the edge of your bed, taking a moment to steady yourself.

"Hey," you say. "It's good to hear your voice."

"You too," he replies. There's a slight hesitation, and you can hear the sound of him taking a breath. Then, a hint of worry in his tone. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," you reply. You let out a quiet laugh. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You've been busy," he replies. There's another pause, and the air shifts, a feeling of apprehension falling over the conversation. "I didn't want to interrupt. Thought you might be getting tired of hearing from me."

"I'm never tired of hearing from you," you tell him, and the words are out of your mouth before you realize what you're saying. You blush, heat spreading across your face, and you're glad he can't see you. "I mean...it's nice. Talking to you."

You wince at the words, a flash of embarrassment rushing through you. That didn't come out right, either. You've barely said anything and you've already made a mess of things. And if the awkward silence coming from the comm is any indication, he's not taking it well.

But as the moment stretches, a spark of frustration ignites inside of you. It's not as if anything has changed between the two of you. Yes, the conversation is a bit uncomfortable, but that's only because you're trying so hard to keep things platonic. If you'd simply act natural, relax, let the conversation flow naturally, it wouldn't be so hard.

You take a deep breath and let the annoyance fade, replacing it with determination. You're not going to let this become a barrier between the two of you. If he can talk to you as a friend, so can you. And if that's all you can be, well, that's fine.

Besides, there's no reason why the two of you can't enjoy each other's company. Even if it's not quite what you want, even if it's not the kind of relationship you crave, the time spent together is still meaningful. It still matters. It's still something that brings you both comfort and joy.

And if the friendship is enough, well, that's better than nothing.

"I agree," Rex says, breaking the silence. His voice is gentle, and you can almost hear the smile in his words. "Even if you do sound tired."

You roll your eyes, letting out a scoff as you lean down and start to undo the buckles on your boots. "I'm not that tired."

"Sure," he drawls.

"I'm not," you reply, a slight note of indignation in your voice.

"Then why are you taking off your boots?"

You pause, caught off guard by the question. "How did—?"

"I can hear the buckles," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's pretty loud."

You let out a quiet sigh, your cheeks burning, and you set your boots aside. Your armor comes next, then your belt and tabards. The weight disappears from your shoulders, and you lean back, lying on the bed and staring up at the ceiling.

"Alright, maybe I'm a little tired," you admit. You close your eyes, enjoying the feeling of the mattress against your back.

"Just a little," he teases.

"Shut up," you mumble, a small grin on your face. "You know you're just as bad."

"I never claimed otherwise," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "How're things? The new legion treating you well?"

You close your eyes and let out a quiet hum, shifting into a more comfortable position. You can hear the concern in his voice, and you're glad that he's checking up on you. Even if it's for a brief moment.

"They're great," you answer, your voice soft. "A little eager, but that's expected. We're working through it."

Rex chuckles. "Sounds about right. Give 'em a few weeks. They'll figure it out."

"I hope so," you reply.

There's a moment of silence, and you find yourself drifting, the warmth and safety of your quarters lulling you into a sense of comfort. You yawn, your body sinking deeper into the bed, the weariness of the past few days beginning to catch up to you. You know you should get ready for bed, should take a shower and brush your teeth and change into something more comfortable, but the thought of moving is too exhausting.

"I can let you go, if you want," Rex offers, and the hint of reluctance in his voice makes you smile. "I know you're tired."

"No, I'm fine," you say. You open your eyes, blinking away the fatigue. "I'd rather talk to you. Even if I'm half-asleep."

Rex lets out a soft chuckle. "That doesn't bode well for the conversation."

"Doesn't matter," you murmur. "I like talking to you."

There's a pause, and you can practically hear the surprise in his voice. "Yeah?"

You let out a snort, and you roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up over yourself. "Yes, Rex, I like talking to you. A lot."

The admission leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you're suddenly grateful that he can't see the blush that spreads across your face. You wince, the embarrassment hitting you full force. Maybe the lack of sleep is affecting you more than you thought. You should have kept your mouth shut. At least until you weren't half-delirious.

"I like talking to you too," Rex replies, his voice soft.

"Good," you say. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, settling in. "Then let's talk. Tell me how the 501st is doing."

Rex begins to tell you about the men, his voice low and soothing. The new men he picked up on Kamino, his concerns about their training, the adjustments he's made to the command structure. He keeps the details light, avoiding anything too technical, and his words drift through the room, lulling you into a drowsy, contented state.

After a while, he trails off, and a moment of silence settles over the call.

"Are you still awake?"

"Mhm," you murmur, the sound muffled by the pillow. "Just resting my eyes."

"Right," he says, the doubt in his voice apparent. There's another pause, and you can hear him shift, his breath catching slightly. "Do you... do you mind if I keep talking?"

You give a slight shake of your head. "No, not at all."

"Alright," he says. Another pause, and the hesitance is back. As if he's worried about saying something wrong. Something that will break the spell. "I don't want to keep you up."

"I'm listening," you assure him.

He lets out a quiet sigh, and he falls silent. For a moment, you wonder if the call has dropped, or if the connection is bad, or if the battery on his comm has died. But just as the thought enters your mind, his voice cuts through the darkness, soft and gentle.

"I've missed you," he admits. "More than I expected."

Your chest tightens, and you open your eyes, staring up at the ceiling. It's strange, how a few words can cause such a visceral reaction, but the feeling is undeniable. It's as if a part of you is waking up, stretching, reaching for something.

It's only been a few days since you've seen him, but the longing is already setting in. The need to see his face. Hear his voice. Feel his presence. It's a need that grows stronger with every passing moment.

"I've missed you too," you reply, your voice a whisper. "More than I probably should."

Rex lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah."

There's another moment of silence, and you find yourself drifting, your thoughts beginning to slow. It's only the sound of his voice that keeps you from falling asleep, and you can't help but wonder if he's doing the same. If he's staying awake just to listen to the sound of your breathing.

"Are you still with me?" he asks.

"Yeah," you mumble, turning onto your side. You adjust the pillow, propping it up, and curl onto your side, hugging the soft fabric. You can feel sleep starting to claim you, and you're not sure how long you'll be able to fight it. "I'm here."

"You should get some sleep," he says, his voice gentle. "You're gonna need it."

You hum softly, closing your eyes and letting the darkness consume you. "Only if you promise to stay with me. Until I fall asleep."

There's a brief pause, and a wave of self-consciousness rushes through you. But before the doubt can take root, he speaks.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, his voice warm. You can hear the smile in his words, and the tightness in your chest loosens, a feeling of calm washing over you. "Close your eyes. Get comfortable."

You let out a quiet hum and obey, snuggling deeper into the blankets, pulling the sheets up around your shoulders. You can hear the soft sound of his breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. He's lying in bed too, just as tired and worn out as you are, his comm tucked under his ear.

For a moment, neither of you speak, and the quiet that surrounds you is comforting, a blanket of calm settling over the room. It's nice, being able to simply exist, to be alone with each other, no words needed. And while it's not exactly the same as being in the same place, being in the same bed, it's enough. For now.

Finally, he breaks the silence, his voice a low rumble. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mhm."

"Do you think..." He trails off, his words fading. You open your eyes and peer at the comm, waiting for him to continue. When he does, his voice is hesitant. "Do you think the war will ever end?"

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, all you can do is blink, trying to process his words. In truth, you're not sure if the war will ever end. There's a part of you that hopes so, a part of you that wants peace more than anything, but there's a darker, more cynical part of you that's beginning to doubt it. That's beginning to wonder if the fighting will ever end. Or if the galaxy will be trapped in a never-ending cycle of war and destruction.

You let out a small sigh, closing your eyes once more.

"I don't know," you murmur. "But I hope so."

"Yeah," Rex replies, his tone distant. "Me too."

There's a brief silence, and you can hear the sound of fabric shifting. You imagine him rolling onto his side, adjusting his blankets, getting comfortable. Then he clears his throat, his voice barely audible.

"If it does end, though, I..." He trails off, and a slight note of uncertainty creeps into his tone. "I mean, will we...?"

He doesn't finish, and the question hangs in the air, unspoken. Will we still see each other? Will we stay friends? Will we still talk? Will we still care about each other? The thoughts race through your mind, and a knot forms in your stomach, the possibilities making you dizzy. You can't bear the thought of losing him, of losing what you have, and the mere idea of him not being a part of your life makes your chest ache.

The truth is, you need him. You need him in a way that's different from anyone else. A way that's beyond the platonic, beyond the physical, beyond the romantic. You need him because he understands you. He sees you. And the thought of being without him, of not having him by your side, of not hearing his voice, is too much to bear.

The reality of it is enough to snap you out of your stupor, and a rush of courage flows through you.

"I hope so," you whisper, the words barely audible. "I want us to."

A soft laugh escapes him, and you can almost hear the relief in his voice.

"Good," he murmurs. "So do I."

"Good," you sigh. You close your eyes, allowing the exhaustion to finally pull you under, and the sound of his breathing washes over you, carrying you deeper into the darkness.

You're not sure how long the two of you stay like that, how long the call lasts, or if he even stays awake. But the last thing you remember before the blackness claims you is the gentle hum of his voice, the quiet, steady rhythm lulling you to sleep.

Your comm is still on when you wake in the morning. It lies face up on your pillow, and when you check it, the screen is still active, the call still connected. You smile and bring the device closer, and when you hear the sound of a soft snore, your heart stutters. He's still there. He stayed.

For a moment, all you can do is lie there, staring at the comm, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Then, as carefully as possible, you tap the button on the side, disconnecting the call. The screen goes dark, and the sound cuts off, leaving you alone in the silence.

You set the comm aside, and as you climb out of bed, you can't help but wonder how many more moments like this you'll get to have. How many more late-night calls, how many more stolen hours. How many more nights spent curled up next to the comm, his voice filling the air.

You know the answer, and it's not a pleasant one. You're going to be on the front lines, constantly in motion, constantly fighting. And if the war drags on, as it seems likely to, the two of you will be spread apart, the distance between you increasing exponentially. And even if somehow the universe sees fit to grant the two of you a respite, there's no guarantee that it will last. No guarantee that it will allow you the chance to truly enjoy each other's company.

You stand, shaking the thoughts away. It doesn't matter. What's done is done. And whatever happens, whatever the future holds, the two of you will make it work. You have to. Because the alternative is too painful to contemplate.

And if the only time the two of you can spend together is in the form of a few stolen moments, a few late-night conversations, a few whispered words, well, that's better than nothing.

With a sigh, you haul yourself out of bed, determined to start the day with a clean slate. It's going to be a long one, and the last thing you need is to let the negativity consume you. So, you push the doubts and fears and worries aside and get dressed, the familiar routine calming your nerves.

After a quick shower and a change of clothes, and a quick trip to the mess hall, you make your way to the hangar. There’s a commotion as the troops work together to clear out the space, and a flurry of activity fills the air, the sound of metal boots echoing throughout the room.

Booker is standing near the entrance, a datapad in hand. Like most of the men, he’s dressed in the lower half of his armor, leaving the black undersuit visible. He glances up as you approach, and a grin spreads across his face, his eyes bright.

"Good morning, sir," he greets, his voice loud enough to be heard over the din.

"Good morning," you reply, and you give him a tired smile. "You're chipper today."

He laughs and sets the datapad on a nearby crate, crossing his arms. "I'm always chipper, sir. Just like you're always grumpy."

You glare at him, but the look only makes him laugh.

"C'mon," he says, jerking his head towards the open space. "We're ready to go."

You follow him across the hangar, weaving through the sea of troopers, and a moment later, the two of you are standing in the middle of the room, the men forming a large circle around you. There's a hush as the group gathers, and Booker turns, addressing the troops.

"Listen up!" he calls, his voice booming through the room. The men immediately straighten, their attention focused on the pair of you. "Today, we'll be conducting drills. Hand-to-hand combat and weapons training."

You step forward, and you raise your voice, addressing the men. "I know most of you have had basic training, but today will be different. Today, I want to see what you can do. Who has the fastest reaction times. Who has the best accuracy. Who can take a hit and keep going. We'll go through each of the weapons, and we'll spar. Everyone. Even me."

You pause, allowing the men to absorb your words.

"It's important that you're well-prepared," you continue. "Because once we reach the battlefield, there's no room for error. Every second, every movement, counts. So, let's get to work."

The men immediately scramble to various stations, grabbing blasters and helmets and other equipment. You watch as they work together, passing gear between each other. They're efficient and organized, and the sight is enough to ease some of the pressure. At least you know these men will be able to handle themselves.

After a few minutes, everyone is suited up, and the hangar is filled with the hum of blasters and the sound of shouting. You glance at Booker, and you share a knowing smile. Then, without another word, the two of you move, heading towards the nearest station.

It's a good three hours before the first break is called, and by the time it is, the entire hangar is hot and sweaty and exhausted. The men gather around, their chests heaving, their faces covered in grime. And, while some are showing signs of weariness, most are smiling and joking with each other, their spirits high.

You're leaning against the wall, sipping water and watching the troops, and Booker is sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him, his hands resting behind his head. The two of you watch as a few soldiers begin to spar, and the rest gather around, cheering them on.

"They're doing well," Booker observes, his voice soft.

You nod, watching as a trooper manages to land a kick, sending his opponent staggering. The sound of their laughter fills the air, and you can't help but smile.

"Yeah," you agree. "They're a good group."

The two of you fall silent, and you find yourself thinking about Rex, wondering how his men are doing. Wondering how he's doing. The image of his face, the soft sound of his voice, fills your mind, and the memory is enough to send a warm tingle down your spine.

"So," Booker begins, pulling you from your thoughts. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow, and he gives you a look. "Still regretting that promotion?"

You roll your eyes and turn, leaning against the wall and crossing your arms. You stare at the floor as you consider his question. After a moment, you give a slight shake of your head, letting out a quiet laugh.

"No," you admit. "Not anymore."

Booker smiles, his eyes sparkling. "Good."

The larger of the two clones lands a solid hit, sending his opponent to the ground, and you wince at the sound of impact. But the men are laughing, and a few seconds later, they're helping their fallen comrade to his feet, clapping him on the back. Blood streams from his nose, but he doesn't seem to care, a wide grin on his face as one of the men steps forward and ruffles his hair.

"Is that Dash?" you ask, pointing at the clone with the bloodied face. Booker glances over, and his expression softens.

"Yeah," he replies. "That's him."

The clone looks over at the sound of his name, and his face lights up, a wide smile spreading across his face. He raises a hand in a wave, and you give a small nod, acknowledging the gesture. You'd forgotten how young he was. You hadn't seen him since the battle of Kamino, and the memory of him standing before you, his hands twisting nervously, is suddenly fresh in your mind. He's taller now, more confident, but there's still a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

"How's he doing?" you murmur to Booker, turning your head so that the men can't see your lips move.

"He's good," Booker answers, his voice low. "He's got a lot of potential."

You nod, watching as Dash takes a few steps forward, stopping in front of the two of you. The rest of the men disperse, returning to their sparring and their shooting, and the three of you are left alone.

Dash's smile is a little less enthusiastic now, and a light flush creeps across his face. He stands awkwardly, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet shifting nervously.

"General," he greets, giving a slight nod. "It's an honor."

"How are you, Dash?" you ask, keeping your tone friendly.

"I'm good, sir," he replies. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and it comes away smeared with blood. "You?"

You give him a smile, trying to hide the concern on your face. "I'm fine. Are you alright? Your nose is bleeding."

Dash blinks, seemingly surprised, and he brings his hand up, pressing a finger to his nose. It comes away red, and he glances at his hand with a frown. He opens his mouth, but no words come out, and after a moment, he simply shrugs, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbles, looking embarrassed.

"Hey," Booker cuts in. "Why don't you take a seat?"

He pats the spot next to him, and Dash nods, sinking to the floor. You settle beside him, your back against the wall, and you hand him a towel. He takes it gratefully, pressing the cloth to his nose.

"Thanks," he mutters, his voice muffled.

"No problem," you tell him. You glance at his face, studying the injury. His nose isn't broken, and the bleeding has slowed, but the bruise is already starting to form. "Who were you fighting?"

"Screwball," Dash answers, gesturing to the clone. The man in question is currently sparring with another trooper, and the two of them are locked in a fierce battle. You watch, impressed, as Screwball manages to knock his opponent's feet out from under him, and a few seconds later, the soldier is on his back, the larger clone straddling his chest.

Dash lets out a snort, and he shakes his head.

"That was fast," he mutters. "He's good."

"He is," you agree, your eyes never leaving the fight. Screwball has managed to pin his opponent, and he's using his weight to his advantage, holding the man in place. After a moment, the soldier slumps, signaling his surrender, and Screwball leaps to his feet, a broad grin on his face.

"You're not so bad, yourself," you add, glancing at Dash. He meets your gaze, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You held your own."

His cheeks turn a deep red, and he ducks his head, a soft laugh escaping him. You give him a gentle pat on the shoulder, and his blush darkens.

"Thanks, sir," he mumbles.

"Just telling the truth," you say, shrugging. "You're leaving yourself open, though."

Dash's eyebrows furrow, and he turns his attention to you.

"What do you mean?"

"Your left side," you explain. "You're leaving it open. If your opponent is fast enough, they'll be able to get a shot in. Like this."

You swing your leg out, and the tip of your boot connects with his ribs. It's a gentle kick, but he flinches, hissing in pain. He doubles over, clutching his side, and you offer an apologetic smile.

"Sorry," you say. "I didn't mean to hit that hard."

"It's fine," Dash says, his voice strained.

"Try again," you instruct, getting to your feet. Dash takes a deep breath, and he rolls his shoulders, shaking out his limbs. He plants his feet, his fists clenched, and he squares his shoulders, ready for the next blow. You take a step back, and you swing your leg, aiming for his right side this time.

He doesn't flinch, and he's able to block the kick, his forearm connecting with your shin. He grunts, and you grin, impressed.

"Good," you tell him, taking a step back. "Better. Now, try the same thing, but switch sides."

He nods, and he plants his feet again, his arms held loosely at his sides. This time, he's quicker, and he's able to deflect your kick, his hand coming up and grabbing your ankle. You yelp as he twists, yanking your foot off the ground, though the maneuver doesn't catch you off guard. You let your body fall, landing on the ground, and you twist your leg, freeing yourself from his grasp.

You leap back to your feet, and the two of you begin a series of kicks and blocks, your bodies moving in sync. The other troopers stop to watch, and a few of them begin cheering, encouraging Dash to keep going. After a few minutes, you slow, and the two of you circle each other, panting. Dash's nose has stopped bleeding, and his eyes are bright, a wild grin on his face.

"Not bad," you pant, a smile on your own face.

"Not bad?" Dash echoes. "I think I won."

"In your dreams," you scoff. You wipe the sweat from your forehead, and you take a deep breath, steadying yourself. "Again. You're still leaving yourself open."

Dash frowns, and he glances down, studying his posture. You can almost see the wheels turning in his head, and after a moment, his expression changes, his face brightening. He moves his left arm, tucking it behind his back, and he takes a defensive stance, his hands up.

"Like this?" he asks, his eyes shining.

"Exactly," you reply, a note of approval in your tone. "Now, try blocking me again."

He nods, and you lunge, swinging your leg. His arm snaps up, and he blocks the kick, a loud grunt escaping him. You pull your foot back, and he takes a step forward, his arms raised. The two of you continue the exercise, blocking and dodging, until finally, you decide to end the fight with a final move.

You feint, and Dash reacts, his eyes narrowing. He blocks your kick, but his guard is down, and you take advantage, grabbing his arm and yanking him off-balance. He lets out a startled yelp as you twist, using your momentum to pull him over your shoulder, and a second later, he's on his back, blinking up at you.

The room erupts into cheers, and you extend a hand, helping him to his feet. His face is flushed, but his eyes are bright, and he grins, shaking his head.

"Wow," he says, a little breathless. "You're fast."

"So are you," you reply. You dust your hands off and give him a wink. "Keep practicing, and you might actually stand a chance against me."

He laughs and runs a hand through his hair, his cheeks still pink.

"I'll do my best, sir," he promises.

"Good," you tell him. You glance around, and a small crowd has formed, the men watching the two of you. You raise your voice, addressing the group. "Alright, everyone! Back to work! Let's go!"

The men scatter, and the two of you watch as they return to their training, the hangar filled with the sound of their voices and their laughter. Dash turns too, but Booker catches his arm, holding him in place as another clone emerges from the group, striding towards the three of you. You recognize Wise instantly by the sour look on his face, and you can't help but smirk.

You'd been more than a little surprised to learn that Wise had volunteered to be the chief medic of the 419th Brigade. Not that you doubted his abilities. He'd certainly shown his worth as a skilled healer, his knowledge of anatomy and physiology rivaling that of the Kaminoans, but a part of you had assumed Kamino would want to keep him. It wasn't every day a clone with his talents walked out of the facility.

Yet, here he was. And for some reason, his presence made you feel better. Like maybe if he was here, it meant something. Like maybe you weren't completely screwed.

"You okay, Wise?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Wise shoots you a glare, and he crosses his arms, his expression sour.

"This place is a goddamn zoo," he grumbles. He points at Dash's face, the blood still visible despite the attempt to wipe it away. "What happened to you?"

Dash shrugs. "Sparring."

Wise snorts derisively, and he reaches out, grabbing Dash by the chin. He tilts the clone's head to the side, examining the wound, and his eyes narrow.

"I told you not to do anything stupid," he grumbles.

Dash grins and shrugs again, clearly not bothered by Wise's scolding.

"It was a good fight," he replies, a slight note of pride in his voice. "I learned a lot."

Wise rolls his eyes and releases his hold on the younger clone. He turns to you, giving you a slight nod, and you raise an eyebrow, surprised by his show of respect.

"General," he says. His voice is gruff, and there's a hint of hesitation in his tone. "Can I talk to you? Privately?"

Your eyebrows furrow, and you exchange a confused glance with Booker.

"Sure," you reply, turning your attention to the medic. He jerks his head towards the far side of the hangar, and the two of you start walking, leaving Booker and Dash behind.

As soon as the two of you are out of earshot, Wise stops, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I wanted to apologize," he says, his tone low.

"For what?"

"For the way I treated you," he answers, meeting your gaze. His eyes are filled with regret, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. "Back on Kamino."

You blink, taken aback by his admission. It's not as if you were a stranger to rude behavior, and compared to what you'd endured and dished out over your lifetime, Wise's attitude had barely registered. If anything, it had been a bit refreshing. The fact that he felt the need to apologize, however, is unexpected.

You study his expression, searching for a hint of sarcasm, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. There isn't any.

"It's fine," you assure him. "I didn't exactly make a great first impression, either."

He lets out a huff of air, and he gives a small shake of his head.

"Yeah, well," he mutters. "You're the General. It wasn't my place."

There's a long pause, and you lean against the wall, watching as the troops begin their exercises once more. You can feel his eyes on you, and after a moment, you turn, meeting his gaze.

"How did you end up here, anyway?" you ask, genuinely curious.

Wise snorts and leans beside you, crossing his arms across his chest and resting his back against the wall. He lets out a short sigh, and his gaze falls, focusing on the floor.

"The longnecks weren't thrilled," he admits, his voice low. "But they didn't really have a choice. Commander Booker and Captain Rex had spoken on my behalf, and the GAR had approved my transfer."

"And you're okay with that?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug, his expression thoughtful.

"It's better than scrubbing floors and being under constant surveillance," he says. He shoots a glance in your direction, and his lips twitch. "And as far as generals go, you're not so bad."

You can't help but laugh, and you nudge him gently.

"Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence," you reply, grinning. You tilt your head, giving him a playful look. "So, we're friends now, right?"

Wise scoffs and rolls his eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile creeps across his face.

"Hardly," he mutters, and he turns, his eyes scanning the hangar. He clears his throat, his voice returning to its usual gruffness. "Now, get back to work, General. Some of us have actual things to do."

Wise pushes away from the wall, heading back towards Dash and Booker, and you follow, the two of you falling into step. As the distance between the group and yourselves lessens, the medic's demeanor shifts, and his usual scowl is firmly in place. Dash seems immune to the effect of his glare, too focused on the conversation he's having with Booker. A conversation that, judging by the blush on his cheeks, seems to involve you.

"Green is good, but I think she would look better in yellow," Dash says, his voice hushed. "What do you think?"

"I don't know, kid," Booker replies. "I'm not sure if yellow is her color."

"It's worth a shot, isn't it?" Dash glances over, catching sight of Wise, and he grins. "Hey, Wise, what color would you say the General looks best in?"

"Don't drag me into this," Wise grumbles. He comes to a stop beside the pair, and his gaze lands on you. You raise an eyebrow, silently asking him the question, and his expression is completely deadpan. "Yellow."

He gives a short nod to you and Booker, his gaze lingering for a moment, before striding past, disappearing into the sea of troops. You watch him go, unable to hide the smirk on your face, and Booker's expression is one of pure shock. Dash, meanwhile, looks pleased. Very, very pleased.

"Um..." he begins. He clears his throat, and his eyes dart to Booker, his expression hopeful. "Commander?"

Booker blinks, and his lips twitch. He claps Dash on the shoulder, and the younger clone nearly buckles, a sharp gasp escaping him.

"Dash thinks our color should be yellow," he announces, and Dash lets out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. You raise an eyebrow, and Booker gives a noncommittal shrug. "Personally, I think it's a little bright, but..."

"Yellow's not bad," you concede, glancing around the hangar. Anything would be better than the white and gray you were currently surrounded by. "We could probably do with a little color around here."

Dash studies you for a few moments longer, and his eyes light up, a broad grin splitting his face. He turns on his heel and rushes to the nearest trooper, and he begins speaking rapidly, pointing in your direction. The soldier nods, and a moment later, he's jogging off, disappearing into the crowd.

"What are they doing?" you ask, glancing at Booker.

"Not sure," he replies. "But I'm guessing the kid's got an idea."

The two of you watch as Dash speaks to another clone, this one older and taller. After a brief conversation, the man nods, and the pair begin making their way through the hangar, stopping in front of various squads. They speak to the soldiers, gesturing towards you, and a few minutes later, the men begin nodding, some of them even laughing. When Dash is finished, he hurries back towards you, his eyes shining.

"Well?" you ask, and he flashes a broad grin.

"It's settled, sir," he announces, his chest puffed out.

"Oh?"

"Gold," he replies. He nods, as if agreeing with his own words. "Definitely gold."

A surprised laugh escapes you. The Force must be playing a trick on you. There was no other explanation for it. Because it seemed that, somehow, the universe had aligned itself to bring the clones of the 419th together, all for the sole purpose of giving you a headache.

"Gold," you repeat, and Dash nods, a slight look of concern on his face.

"Yes, sir," he says, his voice quiet. "Is that...is that alright?"

"Why?" you ask, unable to keep the incredulity out of your tone. "Where did you get the idea?"

"It's because of your lightsaber," Dash tells you. He points at your waist, and your gaze drifts down to the weapon attached to your belt. "It's yellow. Or gold, really. We should match."

"My lightsaber?" you echo, staring at him. His cheeks flush, and he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well, yeah," he mutters. He drops his hand, and his eyes land on your saber. "The way it lights up the room...it's like...it's like it's filled with the sun itself."

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Instead, you stand there, stunned, an unexpected swell of emotion rising within you. You don't know why, but his words, his sentiment, touches you. In a way you never would've imagined.

It's a strange feeling. You're not used to it, and you're not entirely sure how to process it. No one has ever compared your lightsaber to the sun before. Your yellow blade is one more thing that's different from most other Jedi. Another piece of evidence to mark you as an outsider. For Dash to see something else, something unique and special, is...nice. Nice and unexpected.

"Okay," you say softly, giving him a small smile. "Gold it is."

A few of the men let out cheers, and Booker claps his hands, raising his voice.

"Alright," he calls. "Back to work!"

The troopers scatter, and the noise level in the hangar returns to normal, the sound of laughter and friendly banter filling the air. Booker gives a satisfied nod before he turns to you, his expression serious.

"You okay?" he asks, lowering his voice. "You look like you're about to cry."

You glare at him, though the effect is lost. There's a stinging in your eyes that you can't quite shake, and you turn your head, pretending to study the troops. You take a deep breath, pushing the feelings aside, and a few seconds later, you manage to regain control.

"I'm fine," you reply, a hint of annoyance in your tone. You turn back to Booker, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. You roll your eyes. "And I don't cry."

He snorts and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the men. The two of you stand in companionable silence, watching as the squad leaders guide their troops through the motions. A short distance away, Dash is practicing his sparring skills with Screwball, a smile on his face.

After a while, you glance at Booker, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I think we'll be alright," you murmur.

Booker's gaze remains focused on the men, but his expression softens, and the corner of his mouth curves upward.

"Yeah," he agrees, and he nudges you gently. "We will."

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