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frostycatblr-fandom-files · 14 days ago

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Wrapped In Red [Commander Fox x Fem!Reader]

Warnings and Information: When a long-time friend of yours in the Galactic Senate invited you to one of the upcoming galas, you envisioned a night of lavish apparel, drinking, dancing, and dodging the attempts of too-friendly senators. Added security had not been a part of it, but it’s non-negotiable following an attempt on your friend’s life. Fortunately, you can make the best of a bad situation by making friends with your bodyguards — Clone troopers of the Coruscant Guard, including Marshal Commander Fox himself. Second Person POV, undescribed Fem!Reader, save for the color of her dress and accessories. Reader is the friend of an unspecified senator nicknamed “Aspen”. Political assassination attempt [off-screen, more focus is on the aftermath]. Brief reference of a riot and (civilian) violence against Clones. Elements of the ‘Lady/Knight’ or ‘Bodyguard Crush’ dynamics. Forced proximity. Reference and allusion to alcohol. Narrative and stylistic use of italics. Star Wars and real-world swearing. Some use of Mando'a. Prompt is highlighted in red. Requested by @returnofthepineapple from her previous account.

Word Count: 10,817

For the past couple of years, you’ve been living a quiet life on one of Coruscant’s neighboring planets. Though you were born there, the hustle and bustle of Coruscant proved more than you could handle as you grew older. You longed for some place less choked by pollution, politics and power-mad bastards.

So, just before the outbreak of the Clone Wars, you spread your wings and left the labyrinth-like nest.

People dear to your heart still lived there, so you never left Coruscant completely behind you.

One such person—a childhood friend—you’ve managed to remain quite close with in spite of your relocation, and their involvement in the Galactic Senate. Rising through the upper echelons in the political scene to make it into a senatorial position had taken time, but the friend you knew best as Aspen had never been the type who could be easily swayed from their goals, or their sense in doing the right thing.

Thinking of you often, Aspen liked to send you invitations to some of the millions of events taking place on Coruscant at any given time. Mostly small things, like seasonal markets or something related to various hobbies and interests.

“A certain someone I know would love the concert they're holding in the entertainment district this coming Zhellday!”

“Blast… I’m going to be busy that day! But you’re the best, Aspen.”

On rare occasions, the invitations Aspen gave you were to much bigger things than crafting workshops or concerts.

The most recent of these larger invitations is to an upcoming gala being held at the very end of the month, meant to cap off the long proposal period of very important—yet divisive—bills and other legislation to the Republic. You knew from past experience this would be a very, very long month for Aspen with no shortage of headaches. They were probably ready to beg you to attend the gala if it came down to it.

It took only a short moment of thought before coming to a decision upon receiving the electronic invite; hoping to surprise them with good news, a message was left with a member of their senatorial staff.

Hey, Aspen, just thought I’d let you know I got your invitation to the upcoming gala. I know you’re busy, so you don’t need to convince me to attend. I’d be happy to come and see you. The gala sounds like fun. Already looking forward to it!

You’ve attended a few parties with Aspen in the past, but you can’t recall one of this scale or importance. There were the small fundraisers where you ate so many jogan fruit tarts together you were nearly sick. Promotional campaigns where bets were made on how many flutes of champagne Aspen’s competitors would end up sucking back before the end of the night. Public appearances where you stood beside (or in place of) your childhood friend’s family to support and celebrate the hard work they’ve put into the planet you called home for a long, long time.

Making the kind of differences Aspen hoped for in the galaxy would often be an uphill battle. You’ve regularly joked it was a good thing that they’ve always been a fan of climbing in all the time you knew them.

By the time you made it to Coruscant, less than a week before the gala, you were faced with the horrible discovery of just how close Aspen had come to falling from those lofty heights.

You’re planet-side for all of five minutes—busy wrestling your things together in the spaceport terminal—before you find yourself face-to-helmet with a pair of white-armored men. By the way they had begun marching in the direction of the baggage claim from the moment you got there and the deliberateness of their stride, you had the feeling they were not simply on patrol.

These soldiers—Clones—part of the Coruscant Guard, judging by the red paintwork, had been waiting for you.

The rest of your luggage continued to sit on the revolving conveyor belt as you spoke with the shocktroopers for the next few minutes, trying to figure out what was going on in spite of the travel-fatigue. Anyone who’s spent a significant amount of time on Coruscant has seen more than their fair share of regular commuters and far-away travelers getting stopped by terminal security forces, so that in itself is not out of the ordinary.

Getting stopped by members of the Guard, those who dealt with riots and political escorts… That was more unusual. It meant whatever was going on was pretty karkin’ serious. (You’re not in trouble, are you?) Comply. Be polite. They don’t sound angry yet when they start asking basic questions to confirm your identity.

Starting with your name and date of birth, one of the troopers brings up his datapad clipped to his utility belt to verify your answers against information in their database. The other silently gathers the rest of your baggage from the carousel the next time it comes around, preventing some petty criminal from getting their hands on whatever's inside. Between giving the troopers the requested information, a million thoughts race all at once while wondering whether or not you’ll be asked to come with them soon enough. Unless the Corries are hurting for work so badly that they’re now working spaceport security, whatever this is about is undoubtedly serious.

In a shaken voice, you try to find answers once there is a suitable lull in the questioning.

“Can I ask what this is about…? Am I in trouble?”

The trooper with the datapad in his hand turns to the other, saying nothing, but raises his shoulders and gestures with his free hand as if to say “How much do you think we can tell her?” to his partner. You grow all the more nervous as the silent exchange continues, the partner shaking his head at the first.

“Not here.” the second trooper says, his head wagging sharply to suggest it isn’t a good idea.

The first makes a hurried promise before he’s interrupted by the second. “You’re not in trouble-”

“But you’re not safe, either. We can explain more once you’re about the gunship. We need to ask you to come with us.” (Gunship? Safe? Oh fuck.) The same trooper, nodding to a bag by your feet now says “Sayber, take the duffle bag. I’ve got the suitcase.” before instructing you to follow them.

Struggling to match their militant stride, you want to do little more than shrink out of discomfort feeling hundreds of eyes trained on you as you march back the way the shocktroopers came through the crowded spaceport. Doing your best to ignore all the many faces glittering with curiosity, you instead focus on the LAAT/i emblazoned with the crest of the Guard lazily bobbing in place as it hovers over a part of the terminal’s platform.

Aside from the pilot, there are three more soldiers. Two are waiting in the craft itself; another waits on the ground, hands planted firmly on each hip.

He must be who Sayber and the second, nameless Clone now walking beside you report to, judging by the stance and differences in his armor. On his helmet, you see stylized wings painted above a black visor guard, framing the visor itself. Two ‘capes’ of flexible armor hung from his utility belt, swaying in the downdraft of the ship just behind him, and the left shoulder armor has an antenna of some kind.

If you had to guess his rank, he’s either a captain or commander. “That didn’t take long at all.” he calls to his soldiers, tone neither impressed or surprised. “Have you and Naran verified she’s who we were sent to retrieve?”

“Yes, Commander Thorn. She matches the descriptions we were given.” Sayber, the trooper on your right, replies confidently.

All the same, he and Naran show their superior the datapad, allowing him to look at the information for himself. Confirmed with the commander, you’re given the go-ahead to board. Naran and Sayber board first, one securing your luggage while the other helps you into the gunship.

As soon as you’re aboard, the commander orders the blast shields closed. The sound of which makes you wince, but being so on-edge, you’re grateful for the feeling of extra security it brings soon after. As you’re being shown an overhead handrail to use in case the inertial compensator isn’t enough to keep you from being wobblier than a newborn bantha, you’re advised not to lock your knees once the military repulsorcraft takes off.

“Flight shouldn’t be too long, but, because even the most routine escorts have surprises we have to ask: do you get airsick, ma’am?” Having met them just a short time ago, you can’t yet tell Naran and Sayber apart, but you’re pretty sure this is Naran who’s rooting through the on-board medical kit for something.

“O-oh, I-”

Your hesitation and the commander’s interruption is enough for one of them to toss an airsick bag your way, just in case. “Nothing routine about this escort, boys. We’re gonna be wrapped in red tape for a while, so we should start getting used to it.” The pilot is signaled to take off from the spaceport and begin making his way to a coded location a few moments later.

The word ‘escort’ is nothing unfamiliar to you, having gone through this song and dance one of the last times you came to support Aspen’s senatorial workings. But red tape creates enough dread to ice over your veins before it begins pooling hot and sour in your guts.

“C-can I ask what’s going on now?”

What’s happened that’s made all of this a necessity?

Naran, remembering the promise he made back at the terminal, begins to carefully explain the situation with a slight halt in his voice. Each word is chosen carefully, like perhaps he’s unsure just how much he can say, or how you might react.

“Someone—we’re not sure who—tried to end your friend Senator Aspen’s life shortly before you got to Coruscant… They’re shaken, but ultimately unharmed. We were asked to bring you to the same secure location by one of the other commanders.”

The remainder of your flight aboard the gunship goes by without another word. The troopers know this is difficult information to process, and you can’t think of a single thing to say about any of it. It’s hard to be afforded a moment of silence to reflect on any of this with the guttural drone of the engine eating up any sound below a stage whisper, but the soldiers around you do their best. It’s a small act of kindness to you.

Until you step off the gunship, this will be your last opportunity to have any kind of time to yourself before you’ll be so caught up in red tape you would practically be wearing the stuff.

Upon arrival, Sayber and Naran once again wrangle your luggage for you to speed up the process of disembarking.

The less hindrances you had the better. You needed to see Aspen. And Aspen needed to see you. Having a friendly face by your side made confronting calamity a little more bearable, someone wise once told you. (Or, maybe you read that somewhere on the holonet…) In this state of heightened adrenaline, thoughts become muddled and disjointed as Commander Thorn ushers you past several armed security guards down a long hall.

You can only imagine your friend will be in a far worse state.

“Senator Aspen is in here,” Commander Thorn explains, stopping in front of a modified blastdoor. “The two of you will be kept here until a security detail has been finalized.”

“That’s fine… Thank you, Commander Thorn.”

Commander Thorn wastes no time, waving you in ahead of him once he’s completed keying in the clearance code. Inside, you find your friend crumpled into a low multi-seater, face in their hands as the person seated on the other end of the couch appears to be explaining something either to them, or to the other armed guards posted in the corners of the panic room.

From the armor kit, you know the man is another Clone like Sayber, Naran and Commander Thorn with a singular glance. But you’re less concerned with who he is right at this moment, never having been more relieved to see your friend than you are right now.

“Once she’s here, I would like everyone to-”

“Aspen!”

The other Clone immediately falls silent as Aspen gets on their feet in a flash, all but vaulting over the caf-table in order to meet you half-way. Mutually crushing the air out of the other’s lungs in the strength of your embrace, neither of you can properly express just how grateful you are to see the other. Jumbled, rapid words give way to tears seeping into one another’s shoulders before long, so occupied with comforting each other that no attention is paid to the troopers being swapped out with Naran and Sayber once they have brought in your belongings.

In a tight, choked voice your friend begins apologizing to you once they’re calm enough to speak. “I’m so sorry that we had to meet like… like this… but it’s so, so good to see you.” Pulling away, you get a better look at their face for the first time and your heart clenches painfully. They look so scared. So deeply shaken. Yet here they are, apologizing to you for something that’s hardly their fault.

“Had to be the longest hour of my life, waiting here with the Commander for you to get to Coruscant…” Aspen continues, taking your hand to guide you to sit beside them on the multi-seater where it would be more comfortable than standing. “I wanted to talk to you. So badly. Just to hear your voice and find a little solace after- After everything.”

“I’m guessing you couldn’t?”

Your friend shakes their head no. “Not exactly. We weren’t sure if it would be safe to. I’m sor-”

It’s you who shakes their head this time before explaining why a second apology is not necessary. “Hey. I understand. The important thing was trying to keep you safe after you were almost… hurt. Or worse.” The simple fact your friend was unharmed—still living and breathing in front of you—was an incredible blessing.

“Your friend sounds like a smart woman, Senator Aspen.”

Reminded of his presence after you’ve been paid a compliment, your friend quickly begins the process of trying to compose themself in order to begin proper introductions. “Y-yes, she very much is… Commander, this is my very dear friend I was trying to tell you about earlier when explaining who your men needed to find.” The second Commander nods in polite greeting, refraining from saying anything until introductions have been finished.

“And this, my dear friend,” Aspen says in a well-practiced this-is-important tone of voice, “is Commander Fox of the Coruscant Guard. I believe he’s been tasked with security after what nearly happened.”

At this point, Commander Fox has gotten to his feet and taken a look at something on Commander Thorn’s datapad before consulting his own. “That would be correct, Senator.” Holding himself with purpose, this second commander standing beside Thorn differs from him in more ways than just the color-inversion of his chest armor, and the additional Corrie Crimson on his armor alone. “I am here by order of the Chancellor to create a strong security detail for you, and your friend, in light of the attempt on your life almost an hour ago.” His voice, while not too different from the Clones you’ve met today thus far, had strong tonal qualities of duty and seriousness that commanded a great deal of attention from everyone in the room.

You’ll ask about “that” detail in just a moment. Right now, you’re more surprised there’s no fear or unease when he says he’s here to enact the Chancellor’s will. This comes naturally to him.

“Sorry, I just want to make sure I heard you correctly: you said by order of the Chancellor?”

Nodding stiffly, Commander Fox confirms his orders. “Yes ma’am. As the Marshal Commander, I’ve been asked by Chancellor Palpatine to personally ensure your safety at all times until it is no longer deemed necessary. While he understands the upcoming gala expects to see many high-profile guests, he was rather disturbed to hear what had nearly happened to Senator Aspen, and insisted upon a constant security presence.”

“I may or may not have tried politely refusing the Chancellor’s offer.” Aspen explains to you, chuckling somewhat shamefully. “And he was right to insist upon my refusal; it was fifteen minutes after the attack and I certainly wasn’t thinking clearly… I… Well, I think Commander Fox or Thorn has the pictures.”

Nodding less stiffly than before, Commander Fox takes one of the datapads and shows you a collection of the holo-stills and frames taken from nearby security feeds of the destruction left by the attack. While you look at the horrible state of Aspen’s senatorial office, the main window broken with thick shards of transparisteel strewn across the floor, your friend explains that they managed to escape the attack unharmed by sheer, dumb luck.

“I survived because I tripped, if you can believe it.”

Blaster marks have burned the back of Aspen’s chair and several spots in the floor. The main desk, made from a much heavier, more-solid material, is riddled with blaster burn in comparison. While you’re not an expert by any means, the window pane’s shatter pattern suggests that the weapon used by the would-be assassin was likely high-powered, or of uncommon caliber.

“It was just a split second before the first shot. After that, I hid in front of the desk as best as I could until members of the Coruscant Guard showed up. All that Corrie Crimson surging into my office must have scared them off because the firing stopped almost as soon as the Guard got there.”

Dumb luck. Dumb luck saved your friend before the Corries came to protect them.

Facing the whole emotional gamut as you view these stills, Commander Fox puts the datapad away the very second you cannot stand to see more, shaking your head no, no, no.

Outrage and disgust blooms in your chest, acidic and bitter-hot. You had too many questions to ask all at once. Crime scene analysts had cordoned off Aspen’s office, currently combing over everything for the most minute of clues. Would they be able to figure out who could have possibly wanted to kill your friend? Did anyone see who it was before they got away?

What was the motivation?

Uncertain of the answers to the other questions, Aspen could only offer partial answers as to ‘why’ someone might have tried to kill them with much hand-wringing.

On one of the planets the Republic has been hoping to change the neutrality status of, there had been a riot almost a month ago now that’s still so tightly wrapped up in red tape largely in efforts to keep details away from the press while investigations are still on-going. Because of that, Aspen can’t say who they believe started the riot, or for what reason. But they can tell you that several Clones were nearly beaten to death as a result, and the rioters responsible have been charged with destruction of government property for the time being.

Aspen was spearheading an effort to re-file those charges under a different crime that they believe more accurately reflects the rioters’ intentions that day. Attempted murder. While the effort has seen a lot of support in the Chambers, there are a fair number of senators still dragging their feet on making a decision.

A small handful of influential senators have had a far less positive reception to this effort the longer Aspen has encouraged these changes. Matters that were becoming complicated when some of them were beginning to react in ways that suggested hostility have now become even more complicated with the introduction of a botched assassination.

Planning for the gala has gotten a whole lot more complicated as well. If it’s even going to happen at all…

“Did the Chancellor say anything about cancelling the gala at the end of the week?”

“Too many high-profile guests coming from across the galaxy to change anything at this point, I imagine. Some of them have been making preparations for half a year, or more.” Aspen explains, fruitlessly massaging their temples over the thought of it. “Great galaxies, I do not envy whoever is in charge of organizing security for that mess…”

Commander Thorn politely clears his throat. “Will likely be me, now that Commander Fox is overseeing your security, Senator.” He quickly adds, “Or, it could be Commander Thire. We’ll get it sorted.” after sharing a fleeting glance with his fellow commander.

Aspen winces sympathetically.

“I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be, Senator.” Commander Thorn says. When he speaks again, his voice is a little softer than before, careful sympathy lacing every spoken word. “We’re sorry that your plans to get ready for the gala are going to have to be changed.”

“How soon will that be?” Aspen wonders.

“Once Commander Fox has your security detail finalized.”

Your friend makes a low sound in their throat, smiling grimly. “Very soon then, I imagine… May I ask what we can expect, Commander Fox?”

In a calm and deliberate voice, Commander Fox explains that as investigations are being conducted, he and other members of the Guard are going to be accompanying the two of you everywhere leading up to the gala. They’ll be your security as well as your escort force; you’re going to be spending a lot of time under their watchful eyes and ready hands.

So if there are any reservations, now is the time to say something.

You look to your friend and make a quiet offer after considering the Commander’s words. “You’re the one who invited me here, so I’ll follow your lead, Aspen.” You’ve known each other long enough to trust their judgement. If it was decided it would be safest for you to go home, then you would take a rain check on this visit and come back to Coruscant another time.

While you’re prepared not to create more trouble for everyone, Aspen’s selfless nature rears its sweet head even in the wake of an attack. Turning to Commander Fox, who stands straight-backed as he is patiently awaiting a verdict before the two of you, your friend asks one final question of him.

“I know plans will change, but will the security detail mean I can still help my friend prepare for the gala, Commander?”

Commander Fox takes less than a moment to think before deciding that would be a reasonable use of the service. “If that’s what you wish, Senator.” He nods politely not only to Aspen, but to you as well, you notice. A small gesture of professionalism, as well as respect.

“Then we accept.” Aspen says, sealing your shared fate for the rest of the week leading up to the gala.

Though the two of you have only just met, the feeling that you’ll come to like this man has already begun to spark.

From the moment Commander Fox put the security detail into action, you decided for yourself that you would make the most of this situation and make conscientious efforts to get to know everyone making up this task force better going forward. Not only would it be polite, but it would make it easier to remain in close-quarters with these men for a long period of time when they were no longer strangers.

The full team consisted of two parts: Clones who had been hand-picked to be stationed with Commander Fox full-time, and those who would be rotating through the force on an as-needed basis. That meant there would likely be more than a few soldiers you would get to know very well by the end of the team’s lifespan.

Maybe even become friends.

Already, you and your friend were making great progress getting to know Naran and Sayber in particular. These two soldiers—who were part of the permanent assignment—are not merely patrol partners like you had initially assumed when you first met them. They explained they were batchmates, meaning they had been created and trained together at the same time on the world known as Kamino, out in Wild Space.

Naran and Sayber completed their training six months ago; stationed on Coruscant for five. It explains why their armor looks so new, and why the paint lacks much chipping, fading or transferring. They’re young, and have only begun breaking it in. There’s a term Clones like to use that pretty much means the same thing as “rookie”.

“We’re not exactly a couple of ‘Shinies’ anymore, but we’re still fairly inexperienced compared to other brothers in the Guard… I’m not exactly sure why Commander Fox assigned us permanently.” Sayber confesses to you in a moment of quiet.

Commanders Fox and Thorn are busy, following protocol to secure the room where you and Aspen will be sleeping; the batchmates are supposed to be focused on keeping their eyes on the two of you in the meantime, but Sayber’s curiosity is stronger than his worry over being “caught” bothering you by his superiors.

Something that Naran quietly fumes with frustration about. (“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, di’kut…”) He much prefers to stay on task and engage only when addressed. It might take more time before he opens up to the two of you compared to his brother and patrol partner, who happily does more than enough talking for the two of them.

You can expect to meet more of the Guard starting tomorrow; the rest of the day will likely be focused on getting the two of you settled in before any of the pre-gala preparations and errands can be conducted. Some will have to be done separately. Others can be done together, such as the shopping for a dress (on Aspen’s insistence), given that they are performed during set hours.

And they will always involve an escort of no less than two troopers.

You will not be permitted to wander around Coruscant, alone, at any given time.

“Dammit. Sounds like getting some Hyellian musical noodles around two in the morning is out of the question, then.” you remark softly in jest during the first review of the safety plan once the Commanders have completed their protocol, shrugging animatedly in an oh well fashion. Won’t be the end of the galaxy.

His review disrupted, Commander Fox’s dark T-shaped visor lifts from the screen and fixes itself upon you, quietly regarding you over the top of the datapad in his free hand.

The thought that you just karked up strikes you in an instant.

Thinking you’re being serious, Fox speaks seriously in turn. “I was unaware this was something I needed to account for. Forgive me, ma’am.” Your hammering heart skips a beat rather uncomfortably as he begins to pull up the keyboard on the device’s HUD, and your face grows hot with embarrassment.

“No, I-! I was only making a joke. I’m sorry, Commander, I shouldn’t have.”

Asking him to accommodate a silly little tradition of yours every time you made the trip to Triple Zero would create more work for everyone. Taking unnecessary risks. It would be selfish.

Fortunately, you won’t have to worry about making fewer jokes just because Commander Fox has a stronger no-nonsense personality than you might be accustomed to for very long. Members of his own Guard have a way of softening the tension to keep things from getting quite so abrasive.

“Grizzer and I could always make that run for you, ma’am.” There to listen in on the review, the ARF trooper that was assigned to guard the perimeter of the ‘safe house’ by the name of Sergeant Hound drops the lead to the massiff in question after issuing a command word. “Su!” The quadrupedal reptilian settles on their hindquarters, long tongue lolling between dagger-sharp teeth.

“It’ll help her earn a turbodog once this is all said and done. Tradition of ours, for the big jobs.”

Maker: it will take some getting used to being called or considered part of a “big job” like this.

After a long moment, you decide to accept. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.” Since he was kind enough to offer, you make sure to give Hound an especially grateful nod.

Commander Fox adds the offer to the approved actions he’s compiled once the exchange has finished, and moves swiftly on. There has been a lot of ground covered, and he intends to cover more before someone will be sent to collect that night’s dinner order. It’s evident enough that he’s a serious and hard-working man. He would have to be, seeing as he’s the Marshal Commander appointed to lead the Coruscant Guard. so…

So it comes as little surprise that any offer or invitation for a breather, a single moment off his feet has been turned down time and time again as the afternoon bleeds into the evening. Even in the securest of spaces, Commander Fox turns down reprieve and refreshment with the same four words.

“No thank you,” either followed by Senator or ma’am.

Your kindness refuses to falter in the face of his stoicism, but you’re smart enough to recognize when to let it go at the same time.

“Okay. May I offer it to Naran and Sayber instead, then?”

Dinner had been sourced from 79’s in the entertainment district; largely finger foods made in outrageous portion sizes, meant to be shared between large groups. Aspen had ordered a slider for each of you, and a basket of protato wedges to share. There had been a slight mix-up, and the two of you ended up with a third slider and more than double the wedges that you could possibly hope to eat by yourselves. Trying to sort out the error was met with the offer to go ahead and keep the food as they were pretty slammed tonight.

“If you wish, ma’am.” Fox replies, voice as politely disinterested as before. “I’m certain they won’t object.”

True to form, the batchmates eagerly unseal their helmets before gratefully accepting the offered food, granted unspoken permission by their commander. It’s the first time you see any of the Clones’ faces since the start of all this unfortunate excitement. “Thank you, sir. And thank you ma’am!” Sayber exclaims. His broad grin brings out a dimple in the tanned left cheek, adding to how he looks far, far too young for this armor.

He and Naran carry the food to the only other table in the room in order to eat, wasting no time in coming up with a way to halve the slider and wedges between them. While his men eat, Commander Fox discreetly consults the datapad he has clipped to the utility belt from which his dark kama hangs. What he’s reading is a mystery, but you could probably assume it had to do with either you, Aspen, or his shocktroopers. Maybe it was the safety plan and security detail for tomorrow. Maybe it was unrelated.

Regardless, this seems to be the only sort of reprieve he allows himself. Once he’s finished, the tablet returns to the Commander’s hip and he reassumes position.

His posture is meticulous, yet somehow almost elegant. Hands folded behind his back and chest high, the crimson commander does not budge so much as an inch from his post in the time it takes Naran and Sayber to put everything away. Only once they clean up and reseal their helmets will Commander Fox drop this extra rigidity.

Fox’s earlier refusal now appears more purposeful than before when this time it is Naran who thanks you and his superior for the food. The shocktrooper’s words are met with a “Don’t mention it.” so softly spoken, it would be hard (but perhaps not impossible) to mistake it for a command.

From this singular display of momentary tenderness, Fox has told you more about himself that he might realize: if you hope to have a better chance of befriending the commander, how his men are taken care of will likely be very important over the coming days.

Following that first night on Coruscant, you fell into a routine within a short couple of days.

Waking up an hour (sometimes more) before Commander Fox arrived with the day’s security detail, you would quietly prepare for the day ahead of you just to have a small bit of time to yourself. Just you and Aspen. Together, you’d take this opportunity to have more intimate conversations without your second shadows in red and white armor present; to reflect on the days behind you.

And puzzle out a curious pattern beginning to develop…

It was hardly surprising that there would be the most to say of Commander Fox out of all the Corries. You spent the most time with him. Not only was Fox the lynchpin to your collective safety, but the only time he was ever away from your side (save for using the ‘fresher) was to allow each of you to sleep for the night.

He was by far the most reserved member of the Corries you’ve had the pleasure of meeting; the most aloof and strictly professional, all for good reason. Not only was he dealing with the Chancellor’s orders for a very serious situation, there was so much red tape for him to navigate through on a daily basis. It wouldn’t feel right to either of you to ask Commander Fox to behave in a more-friendly manner for the sake of protecting your own feelings.

But more recently he was starting to become more warm with you, no longer just his soldiers.

You’ve seen how he is with the younger soldiers in particular, like Naran and Sayber. Reminding them again and again to not tense their shoulders quite so much. Answering their many what-if questions. Encouraging the two of them to play a bit of holochess against you or the senator in his stead.

Now Commander Fox was thanking you for your offers when turning down the invitation to take a short break or have something to eat. He was no longer passively listening to conversations you would have with the other Clones, but joining in on the rare occasion. You were no longer just ‘Senator Aspen’s friend’ or simply ‘ma’am’ when speaking of you, or being addressed.

When Commander Fox began to use your name, that’s when things became a little more interesting.

Aspen started to gently tease you after that, suspecting you were becoming somewhat charmed by the crimson commander. The gala was in two days. Your friend had promised to help you buy a formal dress here on Coruscant in order to save you luggage space. Neither of you certainly expected to have an audience, and Aspen wanted to make sure that you’d be okay with potentially being seen by Fox and a dozen or more Clones in a fancy dress or two.

Yes, the Guard was always, always very respectful of you both, but perhaps it might be a bit embarrassing. Or feel strange. Maybe you would feel self-conscious in front of Fox in particular… Something they promised was perfectly normal while you were busy getting ready together this morning as you waited for Fox and the Guard to arrive.

“You’re saying that you think I have a crush on the commander?”

You take a brief pause from tidying things on your side of the room, wondering whether or not you’d heard your friend correctly. Commander Fox was by and large what you might consider a “strong and silent” type of man, slow to let someone into their comfort zone, teasing the other person along inch by inch. Did Aspen really think that’s what was going on with you? That you were intrigued by some kind of thrilling mystery in interacting with someone like that?

“Well… Sort of.” Aspen admits with a soft laugh. “This kind of thing happens a lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s Baby’s First Bodyguard, or you’re a seasoned professional when it comes to dealing with armed escorts. A lot of senators and diplomats tend to form some kind of feeling for the people who are there to protect them.”

You try to mask your doubt with a joking accusation. “Are you trying to feed me banthashit right now?” Is this truly as common as Aspen says it is, or are they trying to help you feel better in their typical selfless fashion?

Sensing your doubt, Aspen promises they are telling the truth. “It really does happen all the time, sweetheart. It’s happened to me too! You know I wouldn’t lie about that. And you know I’m not going to judge you for feeling things for the commander, or possibly having a crush, either, right?” Before you can answer, you hear the sound of a distant LAAT/i, followed by several soldiers speaking at once.

You’re going to have to wrap this up, quick. “Of course. I’ve known you for a long time, Aspen. I trust you.” They’ve always been a good friend to you; there’s never been a reason for doubt or distrust.

Briskly getting up, Aspen helps you tidy and put away the last of your things not a moment too soon. Just as everything has been put away, Commander Fox makes himself known with four firm raps on the other side of the door. Here forty-five minutes exactly before the first of the boutiques is set to open, as discussed.

The usual pleasantries are exchanged after Aspen has gone to answer the door. The ‘good morning’s and asking if the two of you slept well. Asking if there was anything either of you needed before joining the others back at the gunship and getting on your way.

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you. Nice to see you, Commander.”

Perhaps surprised by your choice of greeting, Commander Fox has a brief moment of pause before he’s able to reply. “You as well, ma’am. Very well. No need to inform our pilot of anything, then. We can be on our way.” Nearly positive you’re not imagining it, while still rather factual, there seems to be more warmth in Fox’s voice this morning.

He’s still all-business, encouraging everyone not to waste any time getting to the gunship, but now his tone is less stern and terse compared to the days before. He almost sounds… friendlier. Maybe Fox just needed three days to thaw out before warming up to you. Could be that he’s in a good mood because his men are in a great one this morning, most of them comfortable enough around you by now to talk about last night’s boloball victory in whispers.

Whatever the case may be, it makes you a little less nervous about the prospect of going shopping with such a large security detail.

Commander Fox’s brightened demeanor hardly changes for anything.

Even Sayber can’t ruin it by forgetting his training and speaking out with excitement while you and Aspen steadily shop around the first of the formal boutiques for a suitable dress. His reason for doing so was more than forgivable: right around the time you began reaching for a gown in a sort of pomegranate red, the young shocktrooper cried out “HAH! Eat your heart out, Police Inspector Dan Tivo! I knew the Corries would find a lead in the investigation before him!”, much to the disturbance of the other patrons.

There would be much apologizing to do—Sayber for breaking protocol and to the shop for causing any additional inconveniences—before this would start to become the point where things really began looking up.

The red tape would not yet loosen itself from you, but with any luck it should soon begin to lift.

Whether you believed it was a curious coincidence or not, you decided to go with the red gown you had been reaching for around the time news broke of the lead in the investigation. By cleverly pairing it with a few ivory accessories, you curated an overall image that would come close to matching with much of the Coruscant Guard.

This way, you could quietly sort of “mark” the time spent in their company in the week leading up the gala without outright wearing any one Clone’s personal markings, or the iconography that belonged to both the Guard and the Senate.

You also can’t pretend it was no small relief to have so many of these big decisions taken care of so quickly, or all at the same shop in a busy fashion district. What had been planned to take nearly all day was completed in the span of less than two hours.

And the next two days went by in a feverish blur with Commander Fox working harder than ever to truly make sure your security at the formal event would be nothing less than ironclad.

His men even claimed he was aiming to be better than beskar: creating plans for every possible situation and even going so far as to form redundancies. Mapping out where and when you would arrive at the gala venue. Choosing who would be watching over you and Aspen separately, and who would be watching both of you. How he can continue to take care of your needs. Until the time comes and the suspect behind the botched killing has been caught, Commander Fox has sworn to remain at your service, no matter how trivial the request.

Or how foolish you feel to ask.

With hours to go and anxieties rising, there are times that involving him in the hustle-and-bustle process of getting dressed up becomes simply unavoidable. With every instance, your gratitude for this man only continues to grow stronger than before.

Dropped an earring under the dresser and it’s too far for you to reach? Naran and Sayber will need to lend him a hand, lifting the furniture aside so he can search for it on his hands and knees.

Hands shaking too much, and the clasp on your necklace giving you trouble? He’ll help you put it on - he only asks that you hold your hair out of the way for him.

Turning over the string of delicate Castilon pearls, you move to stand in front of the commander. The most straight-forward way to secure the necklace will be to turn your back to Fox and allow him to fit it from behind. “Thank you, Commander. I can’t seem to get my nerves under control at the moment...” you explain, grateful he won’t see the soft flush breaking across your face as his dexterous fingers latch and unlatch the tiny set of claw clasps with relative ease.

In his voice you hear the very same tenderness he imparts to the youngest of his brothers as he softly encourages you to relax. By the time you take a deep breath and count to five ‘battleship’s, he’ll have this taken care of. You’re going to be just fine. Ordinarily you would be, were it not for the electric ripple in your skin every time you feel the smooth material of his raven-dark gloves brush against you.

Understanding the tensing under each feather-light touch is only a reflex, the Marshal Commander casually remarks that you’ll be hard-pressed to find a senator, dignitary or diplomat that isn’t a bit on edge or nervous about the gala. Fox says it in hopes of it serving to soothe you, rather than make you more nervous.

“There you are,” he concludes once he’s finished securing the three-strand necklace. You allow him to check the matching earrings to make certain they won’t come loose for good measure. “I admit I may not be the best man when it comes to these kinds of things, but I give it my best effort.”

Fetching your ivory clutch, you can at last turn to thank him once Commander Fox reports the ivory accessories are both secure. “Thank you, Commander. Fortunately I’m not looking for the very best, only a bit of help. I would say that it’s hardly a contest that you’ve been among the very best in providing an immense amount of help this week.” Your favorite pair of shocktroopers share in Aspen’s giggling amusement as Commander Fox maintains his professionalism rather than fully internalizing the compliment you’ve tried to pay him.

“Thank you, ma’am: but I don’t believe I can take all the credit. My men have shown around-the-clock commitment to this assignment that I couldn’t be more proud of.”

With a boisterous laugh, Sayber bravely advises his superior officer on what to say. “Now’s not the time to be all modest and humble, sir! No buts – just tell her thank you!” He’s close enough to still being considered a Shiny that Sayber can get away with speaking to a brother of higher ranking in a semi-teasing manner, and he knows it.

Commander Fox knows it too. “You’re right, you’re right…” he relents, beginning to fix parts of his armor in a bid to stall for more time. Starting with the vambraces, he straightens them out like he’s adjusting a pair of cufflinks. “Thank you, ma’am. It is my hope that both you and Senator Aspen have felt nothing less than complete assurance in the security force I have tirelessly maintained.”

Finding it satisfactory, Sayber quickly concludes with “That’s better, sir!” after you and your friend confirm there have been no concerns in your armed escorts at any given point.

There isn’t much time you can afford to waste, having to take alternative transport that would be kinder on any formalwear than a gunship. While helping you board the other transport, Naran politely comments on the care you’ve put into your appearance for tonight and offers his hope that you have a nice time. Doing so now just in case he doesn’t get a chance later. The same sentiment is then offered to Aspen as they are helped aboard after you.

Fuck. You’re really gonna miss these guys when all of this is over.

You’ll miss Naran and Sayber’s playful bickering, the way they shout “Ulyc, di’kut!” at each other when the other does something foolish. You’ll miss the pilots who have flown you over the more beautiful parts of the upper-city when there’s been time to kill; like Umate and Monument Plaza, even some of your old haunts from before.

Miss the games of fetch with Grizzer to reward her for a good job, the meals that have been shared, and the stories of how these boys got their names.

But most of all, you’ll miss the crimson commander.

It didn’t matter that he was rather aloof and distant. How he kept things almost strictly business. That he’s never once taken off his helmet in front of you. Only ever nodding, never showing you if his smile dimpled his left cheek like most of his brothers. Or that he never told you how he came by “Fox” for his name. Whether it had been one he claimed, or something he earned.

Because that wouldn’t be what you’d miss Commander Fox for.

You’d miss him for never drawing more attention to himself than he had to, shying from such spotlights in the interest of giving them to his brothers instead. Miss him for the unwavering politeness he’s had for you, treating you no differently than he would for another galactic senator, or even the Chancellor.

All this security, all this red, had been the most reassuring feeling you’ve had all week. And it won’t be easy to say goodbye, to any of it.

Or to Commander Fox.

Between the sound of spirited chatter, ceaseless pop-and-chop of photographers’ camera shutters and lively, swelling music, entering the formal venue before the official start of the celebration proves easily-overwhelming near-instantaneously.

Getting here early offers you time to acclimate. Elation and excitement should eventually find you, but there will be time to find somewhere to cool off, if necessary. It also serves as a chance for the Chancellor to visit with Aspen, hoping to speak and hear how they’ve been since Commander Fox had been appointed for protection, as well as to ask about his performance.

The visit is kept brief, but your friend stresses the shared satisfaction you have in all Fox—and the rest of the Guard for that matter—has done for you before agreeing to speak more privately and at-length the following morning. The Chancellor is not here to detract from the hopeful enjoyment of the occasion for either of you; soon enough you are left free to enjoy the entertainment and pursue the available catering.

It became apparent most of the music played tonight came from Naboo, much like the Chancellor - written by some of her people’s most respected and well-known composers. And much of the food was extravagant, tables showcasing what your own credits could never hope to see with plate after plate of hors d’oeuvres beyond your ability to even name. Same went for the drinks when you were unable to locate any cards or signage.

The Commander quickly proves rather knowledgeable when you blindly select a sparkling crystal flute, scrutinizing the bubbling contents with a puzzling expression after it fails recognition by smell alone.

“What’s this…?”

“Prized champagne provided by Pantora, ma’am. It’s recently proved rather popular.” Fox explains, hands moving from carefully held at his side to folded neatly behind his back as he approaches closer to the table.

“And what about the tall and skinny glass, or the one with a short stem and large bowl?”

An erroneously-named Mantell mixer in the highball glass, supplied from a different planet in the Mid Rim. The snifter is a robust brandy reportedly of Wayyl origin. Commander Fox can only tell you what he’s heard when it comes to if they are any good, refraining from making any kind of decision for you or presuming what you would like. There are other drinks reported to be stationed throughout the venue, if none of them appear to be to your liking. If you would prefer something non-alcoholic, he knows where the sparkling cider can be found.

You decide you’ll be starting off safe with the cider, for the time being. Less decision fatigue than coming up with an unfamiliar, strong drink to try. He again helps with identifying the human-suitable foods for you and Aspen to sample. That’s when you realize Fox is utilizing sensors and scanners built into his ‘bucket’ rather than strictly being knowledgeable upon a sharp pause in his explanation.

“The cured meat is supposed to pair best with… no, wait. Damn artificial intelligence pulled up a recipe blog.”

And rather than pressuring you to engage every instance, Aspen encourages you to go explore the venue instead of listening to them catch up with many of their fellow senators. Knowing who you’ll likely prefer for company (but might be too bashful to openly say), they give you their “blessing” to take Fox as your escort in the meantime.

“Why don’t you go exploring for a while, dear friend? Just so I don’t bore you; I promise I’ll let you know if Senator Amidala or Chuchi are able to stop by before I catch up with you so you can decide if you want to say hello. I’ll ask Naran and Sayber to stay with me in the meantime. Perhaps the Marshal Commander can go with you… If he doesn’t mind?”

The commander offers a cordial nod prior to replying. “Not at all, Senator Aspen.” He would be happy to, in fact. And though he will not be leading you, Fox is even offering to take you by the arm.

You can attribute it to his work ethic and find it applicable etiquette for such a grand event. Considering there is both a chivalrous and protective tone to such a gesture, this is not a measure of control through the imbalance of a power dynamic. He is not here to dictate where you are permitted to go.

Simply put, he’s here with no other intentions but to accompany you no matter where you go, and to comment as necessary as he listens to whatever you have to say. So when Commander Fox finds you quiet after some time, he surprises you by asking what’s on your mind.

“Thought you would be making a small amount of commentary, ma’am. Something weighing on your thoughts?”

Blinking in surprise, you chew over the thought of how honest you should be. “Well… there is something.” Unable to see through that impassible visor and faceplate, the hope of seeing this particular Clone’s face flickers anew.

“S-someone…” comes the clarification.

“Senator Aspen?”

It’s less of a risk for him to hazard this guess, but it doesn’t make the mark.

“No. No, not my friend.”

After a pregnant pause, you confess that it’s him that weighs on your thoughts when he does not ask. “I can’t… I can’t get you out of my mind.” Your reasons are innumerable, and strange even to yourself. You’re not sure what explanation you can give Commander Fox that would likely not be found comforting, innocent or even sane.

So you expect him to politely pull away. To put up walls of professionalism stronger than before. To kindly but firmly establish some boundaries. (Hell: it would hurt, but you could understand if he didn’t do it so kindly.) If you were slowly stoking the fires to a potential friendship, you might’ve just gone and done the one thing to completely stomp it out.

And by hearing yourself say it, it sounds far more romantic than you might have intended it to. “Wait, sorry- I… I meant that very generally.” Attempting to clarify this now feels like a weak excuse to cover up that you’re backpedaling, but it’ll keep you up at night far longer if you don’t at least try.

Commander Fox, surprisingly, does not suggest he is the least bit perturbed. Not by your admission. Not by your apology. Not even by the way you try to create distance from him yourself and begin to anxiously attempt to pull your arm free.

An earnest “I believe you.” is all that is needed to stop you in your tracks. The gala, now well in full-swing, feels as though it is slowing down around the two of you as you feel very foolish – just staring at the red-armored commander. “I know what that sounded like. But I believe you.” he continues, now with insistence.

“You-? You do?”

Starting with the soft use of your name, he again promises that he does - even going on to say why.

“I’ve spent all week watching how you treat and interact with my brothers. Hearing how you speak to my men. And you’re always kind. You make honest efforts to remember their names and have a friendly word to say. Always expressing appropriate gratitude. All of it shows that you care about them, that you’re a good person.

“And good people are often honest people.”

The work Commander Fox does for the Chancellor, the Senate, all of Coruscant… it’s thankless. What work he is thanked for is done with insincerity, often disingenuous and callous and empty. Senators like Aspen are a rarity. Ordinary people, people like you, are the most likely to thank him for his work outside of his bonds within the GAR.

But you’re different even among ordinary people. You have truly meant your thanks each and every time he’s done what’s been asked of him. And you wouldn’t yet know it, but it has led to Commander Fox becoming so hopelessly wrapped around your little finger in the reddest thread in hopes of tasting such genuine kindness. Such a response couldn’t be conditioned or trained out of him.

He may be a Clone, but he was not a perfect copy. Not of Jango Fett. Not of any of his brothers. It was part of that Factor H as described by Fett more than a decade ago to the Kaminoan cloners, likely before the commander’s own creation.

‘H’ for ‘Human’. And humans… they have a base, instinctual need for forming connections with the people around them. It’s why isolation proves so detrimental. As a soldier, it was an unspoken expectation to simply not acknowledge those kinds of consequences to his formative years.

Created in a high-tech petri dish. Decanted from a tube. Together forged by fire with a living sea of brothers. Getting planted on the singular-most crowded planet in this entire kriffing galaxy, where his failure to protect the heart of the Republic meant having to listen to more reports of dying vode.

But tonight, he’s here, thinking of asking to dance in all of his blood-red armor with one of the most beautiful women at the gala. Having lost a complete sense of elapsing time, the two of you had been standing just on the inside to a respectably-sized dance floor when the venue appeared to be cueing up for either the first, or another of the largest shared dances.

There’s no time to be coy about asking if you want to join your friend waiting off to the side, now that they and his shocktroopers have found the two of you. It appeared Aspen intended to have joined you, but it was now too late to step into the designated floorspace. There would still be time to step out.

“Would you like to join your friend?” Fox politely offers.

Historically, you and Aspen had platonically partaken in these duo-dances together owing to your closeness and long-stand friendship. Usually at some point during the night if Aspen was preoccupied with other senatorial attendees, but often at the first available opportunity. Dare you ask for another of their blessings to break a long-standing tradition?

“Aspen, I think I-”

“Go. There’ll be other dances!” Aspen urges, interrupting. They’re smiling, a promising sign you had worried for nothing.

Hopeful, Commander Fox extends his hand out to you. A quiet offering. An implied invitation. If you’re going to accept, it has to be soon. “Another dance, then.” you promise to your friend, carefully trading off items like the ivory clutch in order to free up your hands.

Naran suggests a crucial change before you can take the commander’s outstretched hand and join him further into the showfloor.

“Sir! Your helmet!”

“Right, right.”

This song with a famously long lead-in allows for the ordinarily simple unsealing and removal of the commander’s headgear to transform into something a bit more preformative, if rather hurried. With a polite doffing befitting of the high-class nature of the event, Fox removes the recently-polished helmet and allows you to see his face for the very first time since meeting earlier that week. It is then directly taken by Naran away from the dance floor, surrendered to his care and subsequently forgotten not long after.

Following Fox, he leads you slightly deeper into the dancing crowd with a rhetorical “Shall we, ma’am?” where the two of you assume the appropriate starting position just before the lead-in concludes, and the dance number finally commences.

As a ballroom piece common to the Core Worlds, you’re given more than enough time to study the charming face of your dance partner as the two of you step through the poised and elegant choreography.

While there is perhaps some truth to the erroneous adage “If you see one Clone’s face, you’ve seen them all!”, you are wholly committed to determining what little traits set him apart from his brothers while you have the chance. And kindly, the commander allows you to do so, encourages you to do so.

“Do I look like you imagined?”

Mostly yes. But also, no.

While he had the same round ala to his nose, there was faint scarring across the bridge you hadn’t yet seen in any of his brothers. (You would find others; one cutting into the arch of his right brow, and a freshly-pinked nick that tucked under his jaw on the left.) Fox’s eyes were the same, soulful brown; with an additional intensity that was hard to completely identify. A soft five-o-clock shadow along his jaw, now that you hadn’t expected. Or the touches of gray blending out in the dark waves and tight curls of his hair.

You admit you’re starting to wish he’d taken off his helmet sooner, even though he was only doing his job… A long-suffering job that allowed you to even be here to begin with. If it wasn’t for him, your long visit home just to see Aspen would never have happened. Not the way it did. Without him, without the Guard, your friend would have asked you to take the first shuttle returning to your new home.

You can’t even begin to fathom how you could possibly thank him enough for everything they’ve done to protect Aspen and get you to this point.

“That won’t be necessary,” Fox pledges, both his voice and his smile tender. The dimpling in his left cheek is the most pronounced amongst any of the Guardsmen. A golden warmth that softens the watchful depths in his eyes. All of it brightens your heart with euphoria, pulse already keeping time to the soaring peaks of the strings’ music.

When the song calls for those assuming the position of the dance’s “gentlemen” to pull their partner close, the Marshal Commander fits you so perfectly against his armor in order to make himself heard.

His voice becomes softer—fonder—in the delicate shell of your ear.

“But I know you’ll probably try...”

As the music begins the winding-down, Fox’s vambrace begins to squeal - an abrupt, demanding tone disrupting the pleasant, vulnerable moment between you. Needing to answer it, you assist him by depressing the instructed buttons after lowering the volume per his instructions.

“CC-4477 to Commander Fox! We have the suspect behind Senator Aspen’s attempted assassination in our custody!”

Fox does not reply right away, but rather he eyes the open comlink with a degree of great pride. But there is also great reluctance. After everything you’ve told him, after everything he’s told you, the long-shot he’s taken in asking to dance with you amidst all this formality and decorum, he has to leave now?

“Well done, Thire. Tell Commander Thorn-”

No.

No, maybe just this once, he can get away with not answering a summons instantaneously. His duty may be to the Republic, but man of his honor his duty is also still to you. As of now, he is still charged with protecting you and the senator. It becomes socially acceptable to leave the gala without staining one’s reputation fifteen minutes from now, after these large, shared dances. His men can handle the suspect until then.

Fox will not allow your standing to suffer now simply because of him.

“Sir?”

“Tell Thorn I’m still wrapped up pretty tight here. Might take fifteen minutes to disentangle her and Senator Aspen from the gala. Maybe more.” Fox’s focused expression changes to one of warmth when the word “her” parts his lips, while his voice retains its authoritative tone.

There’s a long silence on the other end of the comm before Thire comes up with a reply.

“Understood, Commander. Thire out.”

Breathless and head light, you’re reeling with relief and elation that they’ve captured their suspect. This is the beginning of the end of Aspen’s nightmare. Your nightmare. But where there is joy, there too comes sorrow, knowing your time in Commander Fox’s company is coming to an end. Maybe not tonight, maybe not in the morning. But soon enough, you will part ways and return to your regular lives…

“I can’t believe they got the guy… Thank the stars, it’s finally over. If we need to leave so you can-”

“No, mesh’la,” Commander Fox interrupts you before his voice turns almost pleading. The song may now be over, but there is still music that can be danced to. Still time that he can spend with you. “Let me be a selfish man for once… Fifteen minutes is all I ask.”

Maybe fifteen minutes… can be a good place to start.

Everything will still be there after fifteen minutes. The suspect, his men, the senator… but the clock will start to run out with you after fifteen minutes. And he’s not ready for that.

“Okay. Fifteen minutes. We’ll… work out what comes after that.”

When you’ve spent most of your service dealing with red tape, it’s going to take more than fifteen minutes to unwrap all of it.

So you’ll make those minutes a very good place to start…

Thank you for making a request for my 200 follower event, Pina! Ended up longer than I initially anticipated even after everything I cut out of it, but I hope you enjoyed it! I apologize for the unexpected delays, so I hope this was well worth the extra time it took me to write it in order for you to read it! And in case anyone is curious why I chose the name "Aspen" for the name of our senator friend here, I took inspiration from the Greek word for shield, 'aspis'. I thought it felt fitting for a story focused around Fox working hard to protect even a complete stranger, being the dutiful and brave man he is. ❤️

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#frostfics #Wrapped In Red #frosts 200 terrific followers event #request fic #thepineapplereturns #star wars #tcw #the clone wars #tcw fanfic #the clone wars fanfic #clone wars fanfiction #commander fox #commander fox x reader #commander fox x fem!reader #fox x reader #fox x fem!reader #x reader #clone oc: naran #clone oc: sayber

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groovegalaxxxy5 · 6 years ago

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Bordello fight scene

While I’m thinking about Voltron, let me post this random fight scene that I wrote the other day and am kind of happy with. For context it’s one scene from a half-imagined Monte Carlo/Casino Royale style mafia AU in which Keith wakes up in a gay bordello one day, severely injured (I mean like every bone in his body broken type injured) and with no memory or who he is or where he came from (Dun dun DUUUNNNN!!! I fucking love me some amnesia tropes, guys).

Obviously as soon as he’s recovered enough he’s forced to repay his debt to the sleazy bordello owner by doing sex work for a pittance. However, through an inauspicious turn of events he realizes that he’s actually really, really good at killing people (like on some serious Long Kiss Goodnight shit) and ends up working as a contracted killer for the mafia.

Shortly after starting his new gig, he gets mixed up in a mad caper when he’s hired to catch a slippery con-man who’s been periodically cheating the mafia out of hundreds of thousands of dollars at their most lucrative casinos for years.

Hi-jinks ensue.

Anyway, here goes a random bordello fight scene:

(*Roux=Keith)

Roux presses his ear to the door for a moment and listens more carefully. The sounds of screams are not at all an uncommon thing in a whorehouse, but the sustained cries that he’s hearing are far removed from the types of noise to which he’s accustomed. They’re also clearly accompanied by gunfire. He knows for a fact that Dio is associated with one of the largest organized crime syndicates that calls the city home, and it is not unreasonable to assume that for some reason or another the bordello has become the target of mafia related violence.

The young sex worker steps back from the doorway and immediately heads to his dressing table, where he quickly clothes himself.

“Something’s wrong. The bordello is most likely being attacked right now,” he explains briefly, earning a look of surprise from the older man, who flinches as he use his elbow to smash in the small mirror that sits atop his simple dressing table. He then deftly plucks up one of the larger shards from the destroyed looking-glass, careful not to cut his fingers, and examines it briefly.

“Attack!? Wait! What are you doing?...Where are you going!?” The Marquis hisses, “If it is an attack then there will be armed men outside…They will have weapons!”

“I’m going to secure an exit route. Get under the bed and don’t make a sound.” It does not occur to the young prostitute to be surprised by the lack of fear or uncertainty in his own voice; his body moves as though on autopilot. The Marquis’ expression of consternation speaks to his shock and confusion at his young host’s sudden and unexpected shift in demeanor, but before he can press the issue any further Roux is heading for the door, completely turning a deaf ear to the man’s warnings.

Ignoring the hushed protests of his patron, he carefully eases open the doorway leading from his room to the second-floor hallway a bit so that he can slide part-way into the wide doorjamb, alert for any signs of movement, nose twinging as it is immediately assaulted by thin, reedy tendrils of smoke that creep up from around the bottom edge of the door frame. There’s a fire somewhere in the building, which means that there will be relatively little time before there are no more feasible exit routes. Downstairs he can still hear gunfire and loud voices, which indicates that there’s a strong chance the intruders haven’t yet progressed to his floor.

The dark-haired prostitute’s eyes narrow as he crouches low and covertly slips his hand holding the mirror shard out into the hallway in front of him, angling the reflective object just so as he uses it to scan for any sign of intruders. It’s not long before he zeroes in on one assailant, a male of average height armed with a standard handgun style blaster, who is just about to breach the landing to the second floor where Roux’s quarters are located. Due to the configuration of the stairway the man is forced to ascend with his back to the hallway along which Roux’s room is located, giving the young sex-worker a perspective advantage.

As the armed man completes his ascent, Roux flattens himself into the space right next to the door-frame and focuses his hearing. From what he can hear the intruder is making his way cautiously along the second floor hallway, checking for any remaining inhabitants. Besides Roux himself there there are three other call boys who have rooms on this floor, two of whose rooms are located sequentially before his own if one is proceeding along the hallway from the stairwell with the balustrade on ones left side.

Roux listens carefully as the armed man kicks in the first door and seems to pause for a few minutes. From the sound of things, it seems as though the intruder is looking for something, but what he finds there instead is a startled prostitute and his client. Roux doesn’t so much as flinch as he listens to the young sex worker and his guest scream in abject terror, just before being permanently silenced by the abrasive sound of the man’s weapon firing. After apparently failing to find whatever it is that he is in search of, the man then repeats the process at the next room, again pausing to sweep the room after forcing the door open — but Roux knows he will find the room empty, as his other two floor-mates had both been downstairs entertaining guests when the ruckus had begun.

A sudden sense of calm floods over the dark-haired boy while he listens to the man in question finish his second sweep and finally approach the doorway to his quarters. Time seems to slow to a crawl as he watches a booted foot swing into view, its owner stepping through the doorway completely unawares. The man barely has time to register what’s happening as Roux slides up behind him, bringing the hand gripping the mirror shard across his throat in a single clean swipe. Beady blue eyes fly open wide in tandem with the spray of blood that spews forth from the intruder’s severed artery, staining the front of the man’s clothing and most of the young prostitute’s forearm as Roux slowly eases the man’s twitching body to the ground.

As his would-be assailant bleeds out, Roux quickly runs his hands along the man’s chest, under his arms and down the inseam of his pants, until he’s rewarded with the feel of unforgiving, sharp metal against his fingertips – a stiletto knife. He relieves the knife from its former owner and gives it an experimental toss into the air before catching it deftly between two fingers and then pulling it into a back handed grasp for a few experimental swipes, testing its weight. Roux looks down for a moment at the body of the intruder, which now lies face-down in a pool of red. Ever since the first signs of violence had shown themselves, something like a voice sounding from somewhere deep inside him has been sending him a continuous feed of orders.

‘Pacify civilian.’

‘Acquire weapon.’

‘Assess conditions.’

‘Disarm and subdue.’

‘Scan for secure exit route.’

‘Engage enemy combatant.’

‘Dispatch.’

Next.

The line of commands flows through his mind in an uninterrupted, continuous stream, monotonous and precise, and because the young amnesiac can think of no other course of action to take, he continues to follow them, executing each action without hesitation. Discarding the mirror, Roux pockets the knife and takes the man’s gun in hand before heading for the stairwell, careful to stay away from the balustrade lest he be sighted by anyone heading up the steps from the 1st floor, all the while watching and listening for signs of other more oncoming attackers.

Though the noise from the first floor has yet to fully subside, it has clearly moved into the back of the building, meaning that he should be able to proceed down the stairs without running into much resistance. Faintly, he can make out the harried shouts of Dio and his bodyguards; It sounds very much like the tail end of a shootout. Thicker plumes of smoke now billow up into the open hallway from the first floor, stinging at his eyes, and Roux has to breathe shallowly through his nose to avoid choking now. From the looks of things, the fire is still confined to the ground level, but it’s quickly spreading.

Roux turns his head at the sounds of two more distinct sets of heavy footsteps moving up the stairs from the large parlor area on the first floor. Despite the rather flimsy walls and floors of the old building, he can no longer hear the cries and screams of the other workers and their guests; Presumably these two new targets have completed their business on the first floor and are now on their way up to reconvene with the one whom he has just dispatched. Wasting no time, Roux falls back into the shadows of the small alcove located at the far end of the hallway from the stairwell, where he waits for the first pair of footsteps to ascend as far as the small mid-landing that’s situated half-way between the first and second floors of the bordello.

Just as the first of the two new assailants clear the second-floor landing, the dark-haired boy shoots out of the alcove, bringing his back-leg up into a swift round kick that catches his mark directly in the aortic muscle and sends him tumbling backwards down the stairs into his partner, coughing and sputtering violently. Caught completely off-guard by the sudden attack, both of the intruders crumple into a struggling heap at the bottom of the mid-landing, as Roux immediately moves in to finish the first with a quick double-tap to the forehead using the weapon he just acquired. In that time the second assailant manages to reach for her own gun to fire off a shot aimed right at Roux’s shoulder but is rendered ineffective when his unoccupied forearm reflexively flies out to deflect the muzzle away from himself. The dark-haired boy then brings his own weapon up to unload several shots into the third assailant’s chest, finishing her as well.

Descending the grand stairwell to the first floor is like walking into a scene from a war zone. Both customers of the bordello and prostitutes alike, most of them stark naked but for a simple dressing gown here or a towel about the waist there, lie prone and bleeding along the floor or slumped over chairs and benches, haphazardly strewn about like so many irreparably broken toys. Roux’s face contorts slightly as he realizes that Matt’s body is not among them, unsure whether that realization should bring him relief or a new source of anxiety. Blood spatter paints the walls and ceilings like the gruesome work of some post-modern artist gone mad. The entire floor is quiet now save for the continuous crackling of a nearby fire, which sounds like it is probably coming from the kitchen.

Down here it’s sweltering hot. The air, darkened with smoke but still just barely breathable, is hazy with the heat of the unidentified source of the fire, and Roux suspects that the burn is spreading across the front façade of the bordello, which is newer and mostly made of wood as opposed to the sturdier back portion of the building, which is mainly comprised of brick and cement. He tears a strip of fabric from the hem of one of the robed bodies and ties it around his nose and mouth as he moves away from the heat as best he can, reasoning that the back entrance will be a safer bet for escape.

The first intruder that he encounters as he heads toward the back of the building goes down easily with a single shot to the back of the head, but the second, who had apparently been just ahead of him, has time to register the sound of the gunshot as it rings out behind him. The man immediately swing around, weapon drawn, but before he can react Roux’s next two shots catch him directly in the abdomen. The intruder falls back a few steps but does not go down, apparently equipped with some kind of protective under-armor.

As the armored man regains his bearings the young prostitute drops his gun and hurtles forward until he is right in his opponent’s immediate space. The man manages to get off two shots that fly past Roux harmlessly before the dark-haired boy engages him at close range, grabbing the back of the man’s head to snap his chin forward with all his upper body strength, right into the waiting stiletto blade. Roux does not so much as blink at the spray of blood that paints his lower face, nor the heavy crunch that rings out when he pushes the knife up into the man’s jaw as far as it will go. Instead he shoves the quickly cooling body away from himself and searches both corpses, only to find, to his mild consternation, that neither has any bladed weapons on them.

Experiencing a tinge of dissatisfaction at that realization, Roux has just settled for retrieving the lighter of the two assault weapons that the men had been armed with, when a hail of gunshots rings out unexpectedly from somewhere behind him. Reflexively, he dives through the nearest doorway just as a shot clips its frame and find himself inside Dio’s office. The smoke is so thick now that he can barely see two paces in front of his own face, and since there hadn’t been any noises to indicate another assailant on the first floor he had thought that there was no one left. Clearly, he had been mistaken.

More shots ring out, this time one of them finding its way into the side of the large office desk that inhabits the center of the office, coming dangerously close to Roux’s head. As he quickly casts about the room in search of some sort of weapon, among the wreckage he spots the bodies of Dio and his two bodyguards. They appear to have holed up in the bordello office, most likely in an attempt to hold their ground against the men Roux has just killed until Dio finished emptying out the safe.

The large locked box that the bordello owner keeps in his office is wide open and all of its contents, half of which look to have been hastily transferred into a large satchel that lies at the now dead man’s feet, are on display to the world, strangely untouched by the intruders. Roux’s deep indigo colored gaze narrows as he catches sight of a strangely familiar metallic gleam way at the back of the safe. Without hesitation he slides over and reaches his hand in to retrieve the object, and is vaguely surprised to feel the familiar weight of a blade in his hand when he pulls away.

Roux quickly run his fingers over the large knife that he has procured, retreating back behind the large, wooden office desk, where he sits crouched in wait. It’s a simple weapon about two-thirds the length of his forearm, it’s surface well-worn with use and littered with minor scratches here and there, but the edge is still clean and sharp, indicating that it has been well cared-for despite its age. It is wrapped from its pommel to the lower portion of the blade with a long scrap of cloth, yellowed with age, but he can still make out the very distinct looking, vaguely blade like sigil that is engraved onto the hilt. For a moment he is back in the sunlit room from his dreams; The Tall Woman looms over him as her familiar words come to his ears in a near whisper, putting him strangely at ease.

He does not need to test the blade in his hand to know its weight and how it will move through the air when he wields it.

Having grown bold at the lack of return fire, his attacker is approaching brazenly now; the sound of another blast ricocheting off the desk abruptly jolts Roux back into reality as his assailant fires off shot after shot with little regard for aim. Apparently, they’re able to see none-too-well through the thick smoke created by the swiftly intensifying fire themselves.

As the gunshots continue, Roux steadies his breathing and listens carefully for the telltale sound of oncoming footsteps. The smoke is very thick now and he’s finding it difficult to breathe even through his makeshift face-covering, let alone actually see, but that matters very little – He doesn’t need to see. Soon there comes the familiar creak of a particularly squeaky floorboard that lie directly under the arch of the doorway to the office. Roux doesn’t hesitate.

In a single, sure motion, he pops up over the back of the desk to hurl his newly acquired blade deftly toward the doorway and is immediately rewarded with a solid thunk. It is accompanied by the sound of crunching bone and an ungraceful squawk of surprise.

Shortly thereafter there come a few moments of wet gurgling followed by a heavy thud as the last intruder finally goes down.

//End excerpt.

This is pretty much all that I have fleshed out in my head pertaining to this concept. I do know that if this fic were to ever be written there would be an intense multi-vehicle car chase scene involved and everyone from the main cast would have their own personalized whip based on my love of classic cars from the 60′s and 70′s, as follows:

Pidge－Ferrari 250 GTO, customized engine, gremlin green with black details. Hard-top, espresso brown leather interior. (She’s Italian and she did not come here to fuck with these hoes.)

Hunk－Peugeot 203 in mustard yellow (The 4-door model because he’s a family man at heart♥). Hard-top, burgundy velvet interior (velvet interior yaaaaasssss).

Keith – AC Cobra in hot-rod red complete with white racing stripes (The paint job makes it go faster). Hard-top, black leather interior.

Lance – Jaguar XKSS in peacock blue (Obviously). Convertible, beige leather interior.

Allura － Triumph TR2, pristine platinum (Uppity and British with perfect resting bitch-face? Yes, this is her as a car. ). Convertible, calf leather interior. Coran is her co-pilot and Shiro is a backseat driver.

Lotor － Lamborghini 350GT in jet black (I JUST WANNA SEE MY MANS IN A LAMBO, OK?). Hard-top, cream leather interior.

As for casting roles:

-Keith: broody amnesiac prostitute...WITH A CHECKERED PAST

-Allura: a ruthless mafia boss who rules with an iron fist

-Coran: her right-hand man who moonlights as a sheisty bookie and manages hit orders out of the back of his betting establishment

-Shiro: The Muscle. (Somebody, at some point (probably Lance) while watching Shiro put the hands on someone:“Soooo...who’s the heavy with the nice ass? Get ‘em, Zaddy! Mmrroww!”)

-Lotor: upstart rival mafia boss who’s trying to overthrow his dad’s empire by maybe forming some kind of covert alliance with Allura’s gang

-Pidge and Hunk: a duo of hard-knocks type G-Men trying to bring down both mafia empires from the inside by playing them against one another via high-tech espionage

-Lance: a sophisticated con-man/high-class thief who lives off the largess of wealthy gambling establishments using nothing but his wit, charm and devilishly good looks to get by. (His lack of a poker face IS his poker face.)

Also, even though a significant portion of it would probably take place in a whorehouse, somehow there’d be no actual smut scenes, because I think I’d just 朝チュン the hell out of it. There could be Klance and there could be Lotura, or it could just be a colorful romp with lightly implied shipping and no heavy romance involved, I dunno.

Either way I don’t really feel like this fic is about to get written anywhere in the near future (it’s a bit too long and time consuming for me to flesh out rn), but it damn sure is fun to think about.

#Voltron #mafia AU #klance #lotura

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sinrau · 4 years ago

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UPDATE (7:46 p.m. PT) — In the early hours of July 15, after a night spent protesting at the Multnomah County Justice Center and Mark O. Hatfield Federal Courthouse, Mark Pettibone and his friend Conner O’Shea decided to head home.

It had been a calm night compared to most protesting downtown. By 2 a.m. law enforcement hadn’t used any tear gas and, with only a few exceptions, both the Portland Police Bureau and federal law enforcement officers had stayed out of sight.

A block west of Chapman Square, Pettibone and O’Shea bumped into a group of people who warned them that people in camouflage were driving around the area in unmarked minivans grabbing people off the street.

“So that was terrifying to hear,” Pettibone said.

They had barely made it half a block when an unmarked minivan pulled up in front of them.

“I see guys in camo,” O’Shea said. “Four or five of them pop out, open the door and it was just like, ‘Oh shit. I don’t know who you are or what you want with us.’”

Federal law enforcement officers have been using unmarked vehicles to drive around downtown Portland and detain protesters since at least July 14. Personal accounts and multiple videos posted online show the officers driving up to people, detaining individuals with no explanation of why they are being arrested, and driving off.

The tactic appears to be another escalation in federal force deployed on Portland city streets, as federal officials and President Donald Trump have said they plan to “quell” nightly protests outside the federal courthouse and Multnomah County Justice Center that have lasted for more than six weeks.

Federal officers have charged at least 13 people with crimes related to the protests so far, while others have been arrested and released, including Pettibone. They also left one demonstrator hospitalized with skull fractures after shooting him in the face with so-called “less lethal” munitions July 11.

Officers from the U.S. Marshals Special Operations Group and Customs and Border Protection’s BORTAC, have been sent to Portland to protect federal property during the recent protests against racism and police brutality.

But interviews conducted by OPB show officers are also detaining people on Portland streets who aren’t near federal property, nor is it clear that all of the people being arrested have engaged in criminal activity. Demonstrators like O’Shea and Pettibone said they think they were targeted by federal officers for simply wearing black clothing in the area of the demonstration.

O’Shea said he ran when he saw people wearing camouflage jump out of an unmarked vehicle. He said he hid when a second unmarked van pursued him.

Video shot by O’Shea and provided to OPB shows a dark screen as O’Shea narrates the scene. Metadata from the video confirms the time and place of the protesters’ account.

“Feds are driving around, grabbing people off the streets,” O’Shea said on the video. “I didn’t do anything fucking wrong. I’m recording this. I had to let somebody know that this is what happens.”

Pettibone did not escape the federal officers.

“I am basically tossed into the van,” Pettibone said. “And I had my beanie pulled over my face so I couldn’t see and they held my hands over my head.”

Pettibone and O’Shea both said they couldn’t think of anything they might have done to end up targeted by law enforcement. They attend protests regularly but they said they aren’t “instigators.” They don’t spray paint buildings, shine laser pointers at officers or do anything else other than attend protests, which law enforcement have regularly deemed “unlawful assemblies.”

Blinded by his hat, in an unmarked minivan full of armed people dressed in camouflage and body armor who hadn’t identified themselves, Pettibone said he was driven around downtown before being unloaded inside a building. He wouldn’t learn until after his release that he had been inside the federal courthouse.

“It was basically a process of facing many walls and corners as they patted me down and took my picture and rummaged through my belongings,” Pettibone said. “One of them said, ‘This is a whole lot of nothing.’”

Pettibone said he was put into a cell. Soon after, two officers came in to read him his Miranda rights. They didn’t tell him why he was being arrested. He said they asked him if he wanted to waive his rights and answer some questions, but Pettibone declined and said he wanted a lawyer. The interview was terminated, and about 90 minutes later he was released. He said he did not receive any paperwork, citation or record of his arrest.

“I just happened to be wearing black on a sidewalk in downtown Portland at the time,” Pettibone said. “And that apparently is grounds for detaining me.”

In a statement, the U.S. Marshals Service declined to comment on the practice of using unmarked vehicles, but said their officers had not arrested Pettibone.

“All United States Marshals Service arrestees have public records of arrest documenting their charges. Our agency did not arrest or detain Mark James Pettibone.”

OPB sent DHS an extensive list of questions about Pettibone’s arrest including: What is the legal justification for making arrests away from federal property? What is the legal justification for searching people who are not participating in criminal activity? Why are federal officers using civilian vehicles and taking people away in them? Are the arrests federal officers make legal under the constitution? If so, how?

After 7 p.m. Thursday, a DHS spokesperson responded, on background, that they could confirm Acting Secretary of Homeland Security Chad Wolf was in Portland during the day. The spokesperson didn’t acknowledge the remaining questions.

“It’s like stop and frisk meets Guantanamo Bay,” said attorney Juan Chavez, director of the civil rights project at the Oregon Justice Resource Center.

Chavez has worked on litigation surrounding the weeks of protests and helped lead efforts to curb local police from using tear gas and munitions on protesters. He called the arrest by federal officers “terrifying.”

“You have laws regarding probable cause that can lead to arrests,” he said. “It sounds more like abduction. It sounds like they’re kidnapping people off the streets.”

Ashlee Albies, a civil rights attorney with the National Lawyers Guild, said Pettibone’s detention is an example of intimidation by federal law enforcement, and noted that people have a First Amendment right to demonstrate. She also said law enforcement officials have to follow procedures when they detain someone.

“I would be surprised to see that pulling up in an unmarked van, grabbing people off the street is an acceptable policy for a criminal investigation,” Albines said.

In a letter released Thursday, Wolf said, “Portland has been under siege for 47 straight days by a violent mob while local political leaders refuse to restore order to protect their city.”

“A federal courthouse is a symbol of justice,” Wolf wrote, denigrating protests against racism in the United States’ criminal justice system as an angry mob. “To attack it is to attack America.”

KOIN was first to report Thursday that Wolf was visiting Portland to view damage to the federal courthouse.

This week, Trump has repeatedly spoken out about what he calls lawlessness in the city. He praised the role of federal law enforcement officers in Portland and alluded to increasing their presence in cities nationwide. Speaking to Fox News on Thursday, Acting U.S. Customs and Border Protection Commissioner Mark Morgan called the protesters criminals.

“I don’t want to get ahead of the president and his announcement,” Morgan said, “but the Department of Justice is going to be involved in this, DHS is going to be involved in this; and we’re really going to take a stand across the board. And we’re going to do what needs to be done to protect the men and women of this country.”

Early Thursday morning, Portland police tried a new approach to stop the protests. Officers cleared Lownsdale and Chapman Squares, including Riot Ribs, a barbecue stand that had been cooking free food since July 4. The city said it was closing the parks for maintenance. By early afternoon, fences had been installed around both parks.

Police arrested nine people during the closure, including three of the people who ran Riot Ribs. They face a variety of charges, including trespassing and disorderly conduct.

Mayor Ted Wheeler’s office declined to offer comment on the latest events involving federal officers, but reiterated a statement from earlier in the week, saying federal officers should be restricted to guarding federal property.

“We do not need or want their help,” Wheeler said. “The best thing they can do is stay inside their building, or leave Portland altogether.”

Oregon Democratic Sen. Jeff Merkely said if Wolf is coming to inflame the situation in Portland so the President can “look tough,” the acting DHS leader should leave.

“Federal forces shot an unarmed protester in the face,” Merkely said in a tweet. “These shadowy forces have been escalating, not preventing, violence.”

Oregon Gov. Kate Brown similarly called for federal law enforcement officers to leave Portland. She added, Wolf is on a “mission to provoke confrontation for political purposes.”

“This political theater from President Trump has nothing to do with public safety,” Brown said in a statement. “The President is failing to lead this nation. Now he is deploying federal officers to patrol the streets of Portland in a blatant abuse of power by the federal government.”

Federal Law Enforcement Use Unmarked Vehicles To Grab Protesters Off Portland Streets #web #website #copied #toread #highlight #link #news #read #blog #wordpresspost #posts #breaking news# #Sinrau #Nothiah #Sinrau29 #read #wordpress

#IFTTT #WordPress

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fernsplaysthings · 8 years ago

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A Valentines, Anniversary and new LS3 Chapter piece all wrapped into one.

Minor ‘Head of the Snake’ spoilers but mostly all about my girls. This should’ve been finished something like two weeks ago but the exhaustion is so real.

Given the proximity to Divinity’s Reach, the Seraph had taken the lead on investigating the very sudden White Mantle presence in the area east of the City, Lake Doric. Somewhere apparently very few people got to venture to.

Despite the ominous presence, Ateyla desperately wanted to visit. She loved her Elder Dragon studies, her Necromancy with a passion, but her new found curiosity surrounding the age old substance that was Bloodstone was beyond fascinating. Besides, they’d been supporting the main body of researchers and soldiers in the Bitterfrost Frontier for a few months, it wouldn’t hurt to head through Divnity’s Reach, get rested and warm and head out to explore.

Klivvik was even starting to put together Ateyla’s applications for a promotion to Archon within the Priory, so dangerous was very much the Necromancer’s territory.

Even so, a couple of nights in the relative warmth of Kryta’s capital city was enough to recharge the small band of warriors and researchers and enough to keep some of the party there for the time being. To rest, and to help bolster the number of defenders around the city.

Faerylie had no choice but to follow Ateyla out to the eastern gates when she decided she was ready to go. She’d even sworn, once again, to Caerthys and Klivvik that she’d take care of the Necromancer (much to Ateyla’s protest).

Nobody controlled this Magister though, as proven by her encounter with the eastern gate guard.

“Apologies Ma’am, no civilians past this point.”

Hand on hip, leather bound notebook tucked neatly under her other arm, Ateyla looked the guard up and down, “I’m with the Priory. This is my escort. Vigil.”

A little taken back by the air of authority that she rarely saw on her girlfriend, Faerylie decided to play her part with a salute. Whether or not it was totally in character for a Vigil soldier to salute a Seraph soldier was entirely up for question but it seemed to go down well enough.

“I’m afraid the Priory haven’t been given permissions to pass though-”

“An Archon with the Priory. To be meeting with the Seraph Captain. Are you sure you’re going to be keeping us waiting?”

The tiny heeled toe tap was enough to startle the guard, clearly trying to recall if he’d been told about this earlier on. When he finally gave in and let them through, Ateyla was wearing a smug grin.

“You know the Seraph Captain?” asked Faerylie, slowing down her strides to keep pace with Ateyla.

“Not even sure of their name. Dropping a title tends to get you most places,” she replied with the cheekiest grin the Revenant had ever seen on her, “Besides, we won’t cause trouble and we’ll be out without so much as a peep. We may even kill a few White Mantle along the way, help out a bit.”

“Can we avoid the heroics thing just a little?”

With a sigh Ateyla rolled her eyes, adjusting her plan of action, “I’d like to at least observe some of the Bloodstone crazed White Mantle followers, get some samples. We don’t have to fight them but if somehow we just end up in a scuffle then I’m not going to complain. Besides, Kryta’s landscape is rather aesthetically pleasing, no harm in a little sightseeing.”

Unfortunately the mostly picturesque landscapes had been marred by explosions and huge Bloodstone beasts attacking the Seraph camps, but heading further east provided something closer to what the pair had been expecting. The village they stumbled across was situated between a very magic ridden looking fort to the North and pleasant greenery to the south.

Ateyla begged to check out the fort. Faerylie put her foot down with a firm no.

“It’s just the two of us out here. I don’t doubt your skills and I certainly don’t doubt mine, but if we walk straight into a White Mantle fort and find ourselves dead, Caerthys and Klivvik will kill me.”

Much to Faerylie’s relief Ateyla didn’t even roll her eyes, simply nodded and sighed a sheepish agreement. She did agree to see if they could stay in the village to sleep, and agreed heartily to venturing south and Faerylie was happy.

Waking at sunset, the Revenant now accustomed to her girlfriend’s sleeping times, the couple headed out to the south unsure of what they were going to come across.

In the dark it didn’t look like much, but on Ateyla’s closer and more knowledgeable inspection she explained that they’d wandered onto a Temple of the Six, a place of worship for the Human Gods. As usual Faerylie tried to be interested but nothing outside of The Dream really drew her attention. It was probably pretty, but it was dark, unlit and mostly just looked like a lot of broken statues and ruined blocks.

As they were leaving Ateyla doubled back sharply, tugging Faerylie backwards with a shock. The Revenant’s eyes, totally unaccustomed to the dark completely missed it, blended into the sheer cliffside, but Ateyla caught it, the narrow pass between the rock faces. A small mossy staircase leading up. There was no debate on whether they were going to follow it. Ateyla had started walking up and with her hand firmly in the Revenant’s grasp, lead her up behind.

“If this turns out to be a White Mantle hideout...”

The Necromancer kept walking, following the winding staircase up and up until the rocks plateaued out baring the view of a vast open cavern, moonbeams lighting numerous waterfalls cascading down shimmering rock walls. Glimmering pools of water below and verdant blooms of flora. In awe of what they’d discovered tucked away from the warring factions outside, the couple simply stood for a few moments before carefully finding a way down to ground level.

“Looks like the perfect place for a bath.”

Dumping her pack down on the grass, Faerylie nodded, quick to unbuckle her armor, peel off her under layers and dive straight in. A little underwater exploration showed nothing so she took off across the pool to investigate the waterfalls. Watching in quiet adoration, Ateyla kept to the edge of the pool, legs crossed at the sides, watching the dimly lit figure out in the water and following her soft green glow.

“The water’s nice, snowdrop. You gunna join me?” called the Revenant, paddling out into the middle of the pool and waving the other over, “You should.”

Not quite prepared with an excuse Ateyla just shrugged, laughing at Faerylie’s diving antics in the water. Only when she reappeared above the surface, pulling herself up onto the edge and perching beside the Necromancer did Ateyla totally lose the excuse she’d started forming.

“You’re uh...” she gestured generally in Faerylie’s direction, eyes downturned and gingerly flicking between the rippling surface of the water and her girlfriend’s half nude figure, “You don’t have anything to dry off with...”

Faerylie smirked, “You can get in the water with me, or I’m gunna dry off on you with a big soggy cuddle. What do you think?”

Her hands flew to the fastenings of her dress with a laugh at the playful threat, Faerylie assisting with clips and zippers with her usual wandering hands until the Necromancer was also down to her leafy underwear and being helped into the water by her favourite strong arms.

“Excellent choice.”

After a moment the water was refreshingly cool, but the initial chill had conjured memories of winter winds in the Far Shiverpeaks. Faerylie had just laughed, wrapped her arms securely around her lover’s torso and held her snugly. Without really thinking she absently groomed the tiny leaves on Ateyla’s fronds where they dipped onto the water’s surface.

“A whole year, huh?”

Her voice was only slightly louder than the soft splashing of the water droplets falling from Faerylie’s carefully cleaning hands, but cuddled in so close it was easy enough to hear.

“Is this better or worse than what you thought I’d have planned?” the Revenant chuckled, palms lazily running over pale shoulders.

Ateyla shook her head and laughed under her breath, her soft lavender glow tinged slightly gold by the blush that had crept onto her cheeks.

“No matter what you plan, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” she muttered sheepishly a little shy with the vastly underused emotion her words were laced with, “You do know that? That even if you’d planned to stay home all day, or out on the ice, I’d know it was with the utmost thought and care it was decided on. And even though we’ve ended up here through a series of unfortunate Elder Dragon related events, it’s with you...so...”

“So?”

“So...it’s perfect.”

The grin on Faerylie’s face was broad and goofy, as though she’d just heard the greatest news of her life. For a moment she stayed that way, perhaps trying to think of her own words or even just absorbing what the Necromancer had said. Either way the smaller had flushed deeper, tucking herself up against the Revenant, bashfully hiding her face in the larger’s shoulder until her cover moved away, reaching for her pack behind them on the bank.

“Here, instead of letting you be the only awkward one, let me join you,” the Revenant chucked, tugging free a small, soft silken pouch from an inner pocket and carefully placing it in the grass, “We might be here because of dodgy Dragon things, but I still had a thing I wanted to do for you and...I still did. In fact passing through DR was scarily convenient. Uh...”

Ateyla’s eyes hadn’t left the silk pouch since it’d been pulled free, watching Faerylie fiddle with the golden cord and the black fabric nervously.

“I probably shouldn’t have carried this around actually but I didn’t want to miss a good opportunity to...this sounded like something way more meaningful and romantic when I thought of it,” Faerylie let out a long sigh and loosened the golden braided cord, tugging open the mouth of the pouch, “I know how you like your gold things and your jewelry. And I know that even though I don’t exactly share the same interests as you, you know lots about Tyria’s cultures so I...I don’t know, maybe you’ll get the significance without me making more of a fool of myself?”

Finally turning her eyes from Faerylie’s slightly golden face down to her now still hands, Ateyla noticed the piece of jewelry resting on her palm; a golden cuff of intricately woven filigree, a lace like design set with tiny glittering white gemstones and, when her fingers gingerly lifted it she noticed most importantly the ring connected by delicate metal chains.

“Sylvari don’t...we don’t have rituals and symbolic acts for love and stuff like other races do so I just thought, uh...it’s pretty though, right?”

The Necromancer was fixated for a moment. Yes, it was pretty but Faerylie had chosen this piece for a reason. A ring, for a reason...

“You know what humans use rings for, don’t you?”

The Revenant shrugged and nodded, “Yeah, of course. Like, promises and...stuff.”

“Yes, promises. Forever kinds of promises.”

“I know. I mean, forever would be kinda nice, right? So I thought I’d...I would uh,” she sighed heavily, shifting in the water to turn and face a wide eyed and adoring Necromancer, “I don’t even know how long Sylvari are meant to live for, especially ones that have died already so even if forever is literally until Tyria falls to pieces then I’d really like to spend it all with you...”

The high pitched whimper was a sound Faerylie had never heard from her lover in all the time they’d known each other and it startled her, at least until she saw the tears on the Necromancer’s cheeks and how she was biting down on her bottom lip.

“Teyla, I’m sorry.”

Another whimper, one that sounded almost like a ‘no’ and followed by a series of small hiccoughs. Faerylie scooped the smaller Sylvari against her, pressing lingering kisses to her forehead while trying to work out what was going on, why she was crying quite so hard.

“W-was that too much? Did I say something wrong?”

Another whined disagreement, hitched breaths and between barely controlled hiccoughs the tearily startled whimper of, “You really love me.”

The Revenant could only laugh softly, petting the Necromancer’s fronds, “I do. I really, really love you.”

Even though she tried her best, cooing sweetly and whispering comforting things to the Necromancer overwhelmed by feelings, Ateyla still held tightly to the Revenant crying quietly.

When she finally settled a few minutes later, they’d been out of the water for a short while, the pale Sylvari bundled into Faerylie’s lap and swamped in the larger’s shirt. She’d come to rest, head on chest against the other, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs, eyes occasionally flickering to the golden piece of jewelry by their sides.

“Thank you by the way,” she’d huffed out with a laugh, the Revenant laughing with her, smiling as wide as she’d been earlier, “I’m not sure what I’d expected but...there were a lot of emotions. There’s always a lot of emotions, but you caught me off guard with...with that.”

“Someone’s got to keep you on your toes, hm?”

With a sharp breath and a laugh Ateyla shook her head at the beaming Revenant, still reeling from the sweet gesture of affection that had been gifted to her earlier. Deciding Ateyla was staring too much, Faerylie wrapped the tiny Necromancer up in her arms and kissed her, letting out a a startled gasp as she was tackled onto her back.

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #sylvari #faerylie #ateyla #it's super gross and gooey please accept this late gift of cute

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