#oc Perdita | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leenathegreengirl · 3 months ago

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YES!!!!!! IT BEGINS!!!! I love these two SO MUCH! I’m honored to be a part of their story, and I CANNOT WAIT FOR MORE!!!

Seriously, y’all gotta read this, it is BEAUTIFUL!!!!

🥰💚💚💚💕

"Now we are even" || The Introduction || Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita

Author's Note: I am so excited to drop the first installment of a story involving Commander Wolffe. This is my first time writing for him, and I won't lie, I cannot express how much I've enjoyed getting in his head. I want to thank my lovely and dear friend @leenathegreengirl for helping breathe life into not just Perdita through her art, but also this story at large. This was truly a whim in every fashion of the word, but as Bob Ross once said, there are no such things as mistakes, only happy little accidents. I am really proud of what bit's I've come up with this pair so far. I apologize for future works involving them, because while this is an introduction set after TBB, I plan to go back in time a bit (wouldn't be part of the Filoniverse if there wasn't chaos with the timing I suppose). Also I'm still racking my brain over a shipname so I'd love the suggestions... Any who, enjoy loves - M

Summary: A story as old as time itself. A Clone Commander. A Jedi. Two people bound by honor and duty. Lives defined by unwavering codes. But now, everything is shattered as the Empire orders the galactic execution of the once-peaceful warriors known as the Jedi. When Wolffe unexpectedly crosses paths with a fleeting figure from his past, he faces an agonizing choice. Will he obey the Empire’s command, or will he risk everything—his identity, his loyalty, and his future—in the desperate hope of rediscovering the man he once was?

Pairing: eventual Commander Wolffe x OFC! Perdita Halle

Warnings: Mentions of Order 66, Brief mentions of assisted suicide, angst with a hopeful ending

Word Count: 5k

Masterlist || Next Part (coming soon)

Wolffe often found the hum of space to be unnerving. Not that space itself had a hum—space was cold, dark, and empty. The hum came from the ship, a constant, low vibration that resonated through its walls, a reminder of its fragile protection against the infinite void outside. He hated this liminal space, this time spent outside planetary orbits, where nothing anchored him.

The vacuum had nearly claimed his life once. He could still feel it if he thought about it too long—the suffocating press of nothingness, the frozen tendrils of death creeping up his spine as his oxygen dwindled. The darkness had wrapped around him like a shroud, a cruel mockery of safety. Skywalker, his padawan and the Sentinel had pulled him back at the last moment, but something about him had stayed behind, left adrift in that endless void. He’d survived, but a part of him hadn’t.

He wondered, often, if death would feel the same. Cold. Empty. A silence so profound it swallowed everything. Or would it be something entirely different? Something warmer, like the faint memory of a sunrise on Kamino’s horizon or the strength of a brother’s arm slung across his shoulders after a battle well-fought?

Plo Koon had once told him that death was not the end but a transition—a merging with the living Force. The words had stayed with Wolffe, though he wasn’t sure if they brought comfort or dread. The concept was simple enough, but it opened too many questions. Would he still be himself in the Force? Would his memories, his regrets, his flaws follow him into that eternity?

And what of those he had lost? Would he see them again? He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The idea of facing the Jedi again, seeing their calm, unwavering gazes, filled him with an ache that felt too large to contain. He respected them deeply, but respect came with weight, and he often felt crushed beneath the burden of their trust. Undeserved, he thought. Always undeserved.

He stared out the viewport, watching stars streak by as the ship hurtled through hyperspace. The endless cascade of light reminded him of something—he wasn’t sure what. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind: Plo Koon standing beside him, hand on his shoulder, as they stared up at the night sky from a dusty outpost.

“There’s always light in the dark, Wolffe,” the Kel Dor had said, his voice steady, unshakable. “Even in the emptiest parts of space, the Force is alive.”

Wolffe had nodded then, silent as always. Even now, the words felt too far away. The darkness pressed in closer these days, even when he was surrounded by his squad, even when the hum of the ship reminded him he was still alive.

Maybe death was different for men like him—men who had taken orders, done what they had to, and carried the weight of it in silence. Maybe for him, death wouldn’t be a warm reunion with the Force but a cold, endless void, like the vacuum that had almost claimed him.

Maybe that was what he deserved.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the console, the familiar vibrations grounding him, even as the void outside seemed to call his name. The stars streaked on, indifferent to his musings, and he stayed where he was, caught between the hum of life and the silence of the dark.

Sure, right now he might be aboard an Imperial transport ship, tasked with carrying a highly dangerous prisoner marked for execution. But in his mind, he was still in the Abragado system, sitting in a pod, waiting. Waiting for the moment his life would be snuffed out in a war he neither fully understood nor had ever truly wanted to be part of.

He hadn’t believed Master Plo when the Jedi had reassured him, promising that someone would come looking for them. Wolffe had learned early on that he was expendable, a belief etched into him by the longnecks on Kamino. He was just another number, another body in an endless sea of soldiers bred for war.

Then came the Jedi. Their compassion, their respect, their quiet insistence on treating clones as individuals—it had shaken the very foundation of everything Wolffe thought he knew. In a world where duty and obedience were everything, where each clone was molded to fulfill a singular purpose, the Jedi had introduced something foreign—something that made him question the very core of his existence.��

Master Plo Koon, in particular, had made an inerasable impact. There was a quiet strength in the way he carried himself, an unspoken understanding that resonated with Wolffe on a level he hadn’t known was possible. Master Plo didn’t just command him; he listened—and more importantly, he understood. The way he treated Wolffe wasn’t like a subordinate or a mere tool of war, but as someone with thoughts, desires, and a sense of self. He spoke to him not as a soldier on the battlefield, but as a fellow being who had hopes, fears, and a need for connection.

When the order came, he didn't want to believe it. He hated how easily his finger had complied, how instinct had overridden thought. The words echoed in his mind, even now when he laid down for sleep: Good soldiers follow orders.

But in that moment, as Master Plo Koon’s starfighter plummeted from the sky, spiraling toward the ground in a fiery descent, Wolffe felt an emptiness unlike any he had ever known. It wasn’t just the shock of watching his commander, his ally, fall—it was the crushing realization that he was complicit in the destruction. The weight of betrayal was a heavy cloak around his shoulders, pressing down on him with unbearable force.

He had followed orders, as he always had, but this time, there was no duty, no justification that could soothe the gnawing ache in his chest. For so long, he had prided himself on his loyalty, on his ability to uphold the ideals of the Republic and the men he fought beside. But as the remnants of Plo Koon’s ship burned in the distance, Wolffe couldn’t help but feel that he had lost something far more vital than the life of a Jedi. He had lost the sense of himself as a man who stood for something honorable.

The world around him seemed to blur, the familiar sound of blaster fire and the chaos of war drowning out in the silence of his thoughts. For the first time, he saw the full, horrifying scope of what he had become—a tool of an Empire that had twisted everything he had once believed in. His identity, his purpose, had been shattered in that instant. As much as he wanted to believe he was still the same soldier, the same Commander, a part of him knew that he had crossed an irreparable line.

Wolffe had never felt further from the idea of being “good.” Not just because of the life he had taken, but because of the loss of the man he had been—the soldier who had once believed in the nobility of his cause.

The last time Wolffe truly felt in his heart that he had done the right thing was the night he learned Rex was still alive. He could still see Rex’s face—pleading, desperate, filled with a conviction that cut through Wolffe’s carefully constructed walls. Rex had begged him to see the truth, to understand that the Empire’s orders were wrong. That hunting a child wasn’t justice.

Wolffe had spent years trying—vainly, tirelessly—not to question his orders. He was a soldier. And good soldiers followed orders.

But good soldiers didn’t hunt children or order their friends to be killed.

Good soldiers brought in criminal lowlifes, the kind of scum he now had locked in the brig, to justice. At least, that’s what Wolffe had assumed when the prisoner had been described to him as “highly dangerous.” But maybe it was his more recent desire to question his orders, or the way something about this mission didn’t sit right, that sparked the flicker of curiosity. Maybe it was the sentimentality he’d been battling since Rex’s reappearance, or the uneasy edge that always came with being in space.

Whatever the reason, he made a choice. He sent his men off for an early retreat, claiming he’d stand guard himself. He told himself it was for tactical reasons, but it wasn’t. It was personal.

Just like opening the cell door.

The door slid open with a low hiss, revealing a dimly lit chamber. Wolffe expected to see a hardened criminal, someone rough around the edges, beaten down by years of wrongdoing. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

Seated on the floor, her back pressed against the cold wall, was a woman—young, though her posture bore the weight of someone who had seen more than her years should allow. She didn’t flinch or rise as the door opened, her bright green eyes snapping to him with an intensity that felt like a challenge. Even in the faint light, they glowed, piercing through him like a blade.

��Commander Wolffe,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, the hint of an edge betraying both recognition and caution.

He froze. His hand hovered near his blaster, not out of fear but reflex. “How do you know my name?” he asked, his tone sharp, though his heart hammered in his chest.

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You don’t remember me, do you?” She shifted slightly, the movement revealing the scar that ran across her pale face, a jagged line that seemed out of place on her otherwise delicate features. “Not surprising. It was a lifetime ago.”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing. Her appearance tugged at a distant memory—a mission gone wrong, the deafening silence of space, and a bright flash of light. Falling out of the escape pod into waiting arms. Bright Green eyes. The scar. His breath hitched as it clicked into place.

“The rescue,” he murmured. “Abregado.”

She inclined her head, her expression softened ever so slightly. “I was,” she said simply. “And now, here we are. Funny how the force works, isn’t it?”

His grip on the blaster faltered. This wasn’t a hardened criminal. This was a Jedi—a Sentinel, at that. She had pulled him from the pod, her face masked with the exception of her eyes. But he didn’t forget the voice, nor could he forget her scar.

He also didn’t forget the way she’d accompanied him to Aleen, attempting to calm his frustrations at the locals after the earthquake. He was built for combat, not a mercy mission. But she’d been there, calming that raging storm in him with her soft spoken words and delicate place of a hand on his skin. General Halle. Perdita.

As he studied her features for the first time, he realized the shroud she had always worn concealed far more than he had anticipated. She had once explained to him that part of her trials as a padawan had been overcoming her vanity. After that moment, she had either been encouraged—or perhaps felt the need—to keep herself covered. The distinction between the two was significant, though he now found himself unable to recall which version of the truth it had been. The Jedi’s appearance had never been something he had been allowed to fully see, and so witnessing her efforts to hold her shoulders and chin high under his gaze felt wrong. Not that he hadn't been curious—he had. But seeing more than just those bright eyes and that scar across her face felt intrusive, as though he were crossing an unseen boundary.

Seeing her now, with her ghostly pale skin, so light that it was as if it had never touched sunlight. Her hair, equally fair, was a tangled mess of long braids and matted strands, though the right side was sheared close to her scalp, hinting at the harshness of the life she had experienced. Bruises etched into her neck, a testament to her resilience, showing that she hadn’t been easily subdued.

She was far more delicate than he’d imagined for someone of her position. She didn’t match the mental image he had formed of the woman who had once saved his life with her luminous eyes and sharp voice. Yet, in her very features, there was a contradiction that unsettled him. Her soft, pale skin was marred by a jagged scar that seemed to tell a story of its own. Her long hair clashed with the shock of short strands that spoke of some past confrontation. Her gentle eyes, framed by dark kohl. Her delicate lips—so soft and inviting—contradicted the clipped, controlled tone of her voice.

There was a complexity to her, an unsettling blend of contradictions, and it was that stark difference between appearance and reality that made her all the more enigmatic.

Not to mention, she truly was much more beautiful than he could’ve imagined. Even after their brief conversation together. He’d wondered, but to see it in front of him now, he found words difficult on his tongue.

She wasn’t like most Jedi. Distant. Quiet. She wasn’t one to preach or stand at the frontlines of politics. Instead, she focused on the people of the Republic, working directly with them in ways that often went unnoticed, or at the Council’s rare request. But she was no stranger to rebellion either. He remembered how she’d stormed away when General Skywalker's padawan had been placed on trial—angry, in a way that Wolffe found unexpected. He had always been told Jedi were supposed to rise above emotions, especially anger. Yet here she was, as human as anyone else.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice quieter now, the weight of his own disillusionment pressing down on him. “Why would the Empire want you dead?”

Her smile disappeared, replaced by a shadowed expression. “Because I am breathing,” she said, her tone defensive. “And because that’s enough to be a threat to the Empire,”

Wolffe’s stomach churned. He wanted to call her a liar, to draw his blaster and end the conversation, but something about her words rooted him in place. She didn’t move, didn’t press further, as if sensing the storm inside him.

However, her eyes flashed with realization, and Wolffe felt the rare tug in his mind. He wasn’t immune to it. The Jedi, though usually respectful of a clone’s privacy, occasionally breached that unspoken boundary—usually in moments of intense concern. His thoughts became muddled, a fog settling over his mind, and in that instant, he knew. She had used the Force to reach into his mind.

“They sent you to hunt a child,” she said, her voice softening, almost mournful. “And now they’ve sent you to deliver me for my execution. How much longer are you going to follow orders, Commander?”

The words struck him harder than he expected, the weight of her gaze pinning him where he stood. For a moment, he didn’t feel like the soldier standing guard. He felt like the man adrift in the pod, lost in the silence of space, waiting for someone to find him.

He exhaled sharply, the silence broken by the harshness of his words. “What do you expect me to do? Not following orders makes you a traitor,” he spat.

She stared at him for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. “You’ve already disobeyed more than one order, haven’t you?” Her tone shifted, probing deeper. “Tell me, Wolffe—or do you prefer your number now? Should I respect the identity the Empire has forced upon you? After all, you seem so eager to follow their commands, to remain obedient, even if it means abandoning everything else.”

Wolffe’s jaw clenched as her words hit home, each syllable sharp, cutting through the layers of his resolve. He shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his side, but he refused to let her see the crack in his metaphorical armor.

"I follow orders," he said, his voice tight. "It's what I was made for. It's what we all were made for. You think I like this? You think I want to be this?" He gestured vaguely toward his armor, the cold, sterile shell that defined him as much as his number did. "The Empire... they gave us purpose. A place in this galaxy. A role. And what do you want me to do, General Halle? Turn my back on that? After everything?"

She took a slow step forward, her eyes unwavering, assessing him like she always had. He could feel the pull of the Force, a subtle pressure against his mind. She wasn’t pushing, but her presence lingered, and it was almost like she could see through him.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your past, Wolffe,” she said, her voice softer now, though the challenge remained. “I’m asking you to remember it. To remember who you were before the Empire twisted everything. You have never been just a number.”

Her words settled into the space between them, heavy with meaning, and Wolffe felt something shift deep inside him—a faint stirring he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had spent so long burying that part of himself, the part that still remembered loyalty to something more than orders. But now, in her presence, in the weight of her gaze, it felt like the walls he had built up around himself were starting to crack.

"You think I can just walk away?" he muttered, almost to himself. "That it’s that simple? The wars, the lies..." He paused, the words thick in his throat. "I don’t even know who I am anymore."

Perdita’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She took another step toward him, this time with less certainty. She didn’t reach out, but the gesture was enough.

“You can always start again, find a new purpose, and maybe along the way find who you once were. I know you Wolffe. You are a good man. You always have been,” she commented quietly.

Wolffe didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the transport ship’s engines. The weight of his own thoughts pressed on him like an anchor, dragging him deeper into the abyss of uncertainty. He didn’t know what the right choice was. But standing here, facing the Jedi, he felt something stir in him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

The man he had been—the man before the Empire—was still there. Somewhere.

But could he still find his way back? Or was he already too far gone?

The question lingered, unanswered, and it gnawed at him from the inside out. The conflict within him was too great, an overwhelming surge of doubt and guilt. He was lost between what he felt and what he knew. He knew the Jedi were kind, compassionate—humane in a way the Empire could never be. But there was another part of him, the part shaped by years of conditioning, of following orders without question. The part that told him Jedi were the enemy, that they had betrayed him, betrayed all of them.

Even if she was correct, he didn’t feel he deserved a second chance.

"Stop," he snapped, his voice low and harsh, barely containing the fury building within him. "You're twisting my mind. That's why all you Jedi were executed." He spat the words, stepping back as if to escape the heavy weight of his own thoughts.

But Perdita’s gaze didn’t falter. Her eyes flashed with frustration—and something else. It was the same intensity that had pulled him from the wreckage of the Abregado system all those years ago. The depth her eyes had shown when he’d looked into them deeply under the glow of the setting sun on Aleen. The same ferocity that made her a Jedi in a way he could never fully understand.

“Did you pull the trigger yourself, Wolffe?” she demanded, her voice sharp and cutting through the haze in his mind.

His eyes widened. “What—?”

“Master Plo.” She took a step closer, her bound hands held out in front of her, as if she were trying to approach him without triggering some kind of defense mechanism. “Did you take the shot yourself?”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His mind flashed back to that day, to the moment when it all went wrong. The blast rang out, and Plo Koon had fallen, silent and still.

“I didn’t—” Wolffe started, his voice shaking. “I didn’t want to…”

But she was relentless, her voice a hiss, her anger barely contained. “Did you pull the trigger yourself, or did you let one of your men do it for you? Did you stand by while they carried out the order?”

Wolffe’s heart pounded in his chest. She was right. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, not directly. He hadn’t been the one to execute the order. But he had been there. He had stood by calling the order while his brothers did the work. His hands had been tied by duty, by obedience and the relentless weight of his training.

Her words cut deeper than he expected, and for the first time in years, he felt a crack in the armor he had spent so long building. The Jedi saw through him in a way no one else had in a long time.

“No,” Wolffe said, his voice heavy with bitterness. “Boost did it. Shot down the starfighter,” he explained with a dramatic sigh, as though the memory still weighed on him like a stone in his chest.

Perdita’s gaze never left him, unyielding. “Why?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent, searching for the truth behind his words.

Wolffe hesitated, his eyes darkening with the weight of the past. “Because I couldn’t. Because I was weak…” His voice trailed off, thick with shame. He had always prided himself on being strong, unwavering. But in that moment, when the world seemed to fall apart around him, he had faltered.

“To lay down arms is not weakness,” she replied, her tone calm but firm, as though she had spoken those words to herself a thousand times.

He scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Says the woman marked for execution,” he muttered, a sharp edge in his voice. His gaze flickered toward her, searching for the woman who had once saved him, who had risked everything to pull him from the wreckage when all seemed lost. The memory stung.

“You saved my life once,” he reminded her, his voice quieter now, tinged with a mix of gratitude and regret.

“I did,” Perdita agreed, her eyes softening, but her expression remained steady. “And now, may I ask one favor of you? A simple one, so that we can finally be even?”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. There was something in the way she said it, something that made him pause.

“Kill me,” she whispered solemnly, her words cutting through the silence like a blade.

Wolffe froze, his breath hitching in his chest. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t even process what she had just said. Kill me? The weight of those words landed on him with a staggering force, and for the first time since they’d started this uneasy exchange, his mind went utterly blank.

“W-What?” he stammered, confusion and disbelief mixing with a knot of panic that twisted deep inside him.

Perdita’s gaze never wavered, though there was a deep sadness in her eyes, a quiet resignation that tugged at something buried within him. She didn’t look like someone who feared death. In fact, she looked like someone who had made peace with it long ago.

“Kill me, Wolffe,” she repeated, her voice soft, but heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken things. “Where you are taking me is a fate worse than death,”

The words hit Wolffe like a punch to the gut. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he absorbed the depth of what she was saying. She was asking him to end her life, to release her from the nightmare that had followed her since the purge, since the fall of the Jedi. He could hear the quiet despair in her voice, the resignation that she had already accepted that no other option was left.

"Stop," he snapped, stepping forward with a sharpness he hadn't meant. His hand clenched into a fist at his side. "Don't say that."

Perdita’s eyes flickered to his, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability breaking through her hard exterior. "It's the truth," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve lived through so much betrayal, Wolffe. I’ve seen what the Empire does to those it deems 'enemy’, it’s not a pretty sight I assure you"

Wolffe’s breath caught in his throat as he processed her words. He had heard whispers of the horrors of the Empire, the ruthless efficiency of its cruelty, but hearing it from her—someone who had once been who had fought beside the clones and now found herself hunted—made the reality of it all feel sharper.

“It’s not fair for you to ask that of me,” he demanded, his voice tightening with frustration. The very thought of it made him nauseous. To kill an unarmed woman—especially a prisoner—was not only unjust, it would be a betrayal of everything he had ever stood for. It could lead him to a court-martial, or worse.

“Why not,” she demanded.

Her words struck him harder than he expected. The Empire had already claimed so much from him—his autonomy, his sense of purpose, his very soul at times. But now, the reality of what she was saying pressed against him like a vise. Was he just another pawn? Would he become expendable too, the moment they had no more use for him?

“I’m not one of them,” he said, his voice a mixture of defiance and doubt. He wasn’t, was he?

But Perdita only stared at him, her expression unreadable. “You’re more like them than you think,” she whispered. “You’ve followed their orders. You’ve done their bidding. And now… now you want to pretend you don’t have a choice in what happens to me. Pretend I got free, tried to kill your men. I’m a threat am I not? Is that not what they told you? Please Wolffe. I do not wish to suffer needlessly. However if your resignation truly is with the Empire then I suppose you truly do not have a choice.”

Wolffe took a step back, his breath quickening. She was right in one sense—he had followed orders, too many times without question. But was that enough to define him? Was that all he was now? A soldier for an Empire that cared nothing for his humanity? Or worse, the humanity of others.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I still have a choice.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wavering just slightly. “Then make it.”

He stared at her for a long moment, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. Should he kill her? Should he let her go? Should he risk everything? How much more guilt would he carry in delivering her to whatever fate she had foreseen? She was asking him to do something impossible, something that could destroy him just as easily as it would destroy her.

But the longer he looked at her, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just about survival anymore. It wasn’t just about doing what was expected or what was easy. This was about redemption—for her, for him, for them both.

“I won’t kill you,” he said, the words steady but heavy. His eyes darted around. The cybernetic one struggling to see in the dimly lit cell as he searched for the control panel on the wall.

Perdita didn’t respond, assuming he was ready to leave and her last attempt at peace, foiled by a clone who truly owed her little loyalty. As she prepared for his departure she felt the chains around her hands unlock, before falling away. Flexing her fingers she looked up to see him much closer now as he tugged her forearm.

“But I won’t let them take you, either.” His voice was low, almost aggressive in nature, as if he was revolting against the very action he was taking.

Perdita didn’t smile. She didn’t thank him. She just nodded, the flicker of something like hope passing through her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the courage to take the next step—whatever that might be.

“Why?” she asked, her voice calm, though it carried the weight of disbelief. She paused for a moment, taking a breath to collect herself in the wake of his unexpected actions.

Wolffe met her gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the floor, his attention lingering on the mud caked on the tops of his boots. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to hers again, his eyes scanning hers as if unsure whether to reveal the truth. Yet, in this moment—after throwing caution to the wind—it seemed honesty was the only option.

The problem? He wasn’t entirely certain himself. Of course, he had theories. Wolffe had been searching for a way out of the Empire ever since that night he crossed paths with Rex. Having a Jedi by his side would significantly increase his chances of desertion. So, part of his reasoning, at least, was rooted in a tactical advantage.

But then, as his gaze fell on her face, resting on the scar that marked her eye, something else surfaced. He remembered how much he owed her—how she had been the one to help locate their damaged pod. Without her, he would have been lost to the cold expanse of space. A debt like that, a life saved, demanded more than mere gratitude—it demanded something deeper.

“You saved my life once, General,” he said, though internally he wanted to slam his head into the durasteel wall. He knew that she had done so more than once—countless times, in fact, for him and his brothers. “Consider us even,” he added, his words laced with a mixture of gratitude and frustration.

After a brief pause, he heard the soft sound of her approach. Her arm brushed against his unintentionally as she spoke, her voice steady but curious. “What’s your plan?”

Wolffe felt the faintest stir at the brush of her arm, but he quickly focused on her words. He turned slightly, his gaze meeting hers, but there was a momentary hesitation in his expression. The question hung in the air, heavy with more than just the immediate answer.

He knew she wasn’t just asking about the details or the strategy—she was asking what came next, what he planned to do with everything that had led them to this moment. He could feel the weight of her question, the uncertainty that hung heavily in the air between them.

For a moment, he stayed silent, his mind racing through countless possibilities, each one more uncertain than the last. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady but tinged with the weight of the decision. "It’s a long shot, but I think it might work. You’ll have to trust me on this." He met her gaze, a quiet resolve in his eyes. "As for everything else, we’ll improvise—if we make it out of here."

"Alright. After you, Commander—"

"Wolffe," he interjected, his voice flat, almost terse. The weight of the moment pressed down on him—the knowledge that he was about to turn his back on everything he had ever known, to abandon the man he had been for so long. It felt like an impossible choice, and yet it was the only one left. In the face of such a drastic break, being addressed by his rank felt distant, cold, and impersonal. It was as though the uniform, the title, had become a mask for something that no longer fit him.

She paused for a moment, as if sensing the shift in the air between them. Her gaze met his, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before she nodded slightly, her voice equally dry, yet carrying a certain weight of its own. "Lead the way, Wolffe."

Her words, though simple, held a quiet acknowledgment—an acceptance of the change that had already begun. Neither of them needed to say more. The decision had been made, and whatever path lay ahead, it would be walked side by side.

To be continued...

(Also if you made it this far thank you so much! Below is the unedited image of Perdita courtesy of my lovely friend… you can find her bio HERE, on her page! Additionally, I may start a tag list soon so if anyone's interested just drop a comment or shoot me a DM <3!)

#legacygirlingreen #legacygirlingreen’s writing #legacygirlingreen’s OC #the clone wars #the clone wars ocs #the clone wars au #tcw wolffe #tcw oc #tcw #sw tbb #the bad batch wolffe #commander wolffe #commander wolffe x oc #oc perdita #pabuverse #Leena loves this

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legacygirlingreen · 2 months ago

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"Princess" || Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita || Clone x Clone OC Week 2025

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x OFC Perdita Halle (Bio HERE)

Word Count: 6.8k+

Rating: SFW but Teen+

Warnings: heavy flirtation, mentions of order 66, grief

Author's Note: Day 3 of @clonexocweek! Shifting gears to one of my other OC's Perdita. You can find her Bio linked ahead! This is also the next installment of her story with Commander Wolffe! So thankful to this writing challenge to really push me to keep my stories going! As always, this story exists within @leenathegreengirl 's AU and she is responsible for helping bring Perdita to life!

Previous Work || Masterlist

Wolffe stormed through the swamp, fury in every step. How he had ended up here was something he still couldn't fully accept as his own doing. The decision to fire on his own troopers the moment he set foot on the landing platform with the Jedi in custody had set everything in motion—forcing them both into a frantic scramble for a shuttle to escape. While their initial flight had been successful, it became clear that no matter how many ships they commandeered, they were always being tracked. The Empire was waiting for them the moment they made it off-world. And so, their latest crash landing on Nal Hutta, the ship's descent still echoing in his mind…

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

“I’d brace yourself for a rough landing, Princess,” he muttered grumpily, his eyes scanning the damaged shuttle’s computer system. The trajectory was set, but that didn’t ease the gnawing sense of dread. The hyperspace jump hadn’t been the problem—no, it was the damage they’d sustained during the last firefight. When they entered the atmosphere, the shuttle had been torn apart even more, each burst of fire and each jolting impact chipping away at what was left of the ship.

“I told you to stop calling me that,” she snapped back, her voice edged with irritation.

He wasn’t sure why the nickname had stuck. Maybe it was the undeniable truth that, despite everything, she did look every bit like royalty—her elegance even in chaos a sharp contrast to the grim reality of their situation. Or maybe it was just his way of dealing with everything—his passive-aggressive shield, the thin veil of sarcasm and annoyance that kept the world at bay. He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: the name fit her, and it kept slipping off his tongue without a hint of regret.

The shuttle’s hull groaned in protest as it plunged further into the atmosphere, metal screeching under the strain. Wolffe’s fingers flew over the controls, trying to stabilize the craft, but it was like trying to tame a wild animal. Sparks flew from the dashboard, and alarms screamed in their ears as the ship's systems malfunctioned one by one.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her. His hands tightened on the controls, his mind racing with calculations, but there was no escaping the inevitable.

Perdita’s voice cut through the chaos. “Wolffe, do something!”

He barely heard her over the sound of the wind whipping through the shuttle’s breaches, but he could feel her eyes on him. He knew she was scared. Hell, he was scared. His mind raced, thinking of a hundred ways to try and save them, but his heart kept coming back to one thing: her.

She was a fighter, he’d seen that time and again, but there was something about the way she sat there—straight-backed, almost too calm for someone about to crash into a swamp—something that gnawed at him. It wasn’t the same composure he saw in seasoned soldiers. It was something more fragile, hidden behind those defiant eyes of hers.

His breath hitched as he looked over at her, the storm of emotions he’d kept locked up inside surging to the surface. “Don’t worry, I’m not letting you die,” he growled, more to himself than her, his voice rough with the weight of the words. There was no time to explain, no time to reconcile his feelings, but that fact rang clear in his mind.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly about to retort, but the shuttle bucked violently, throwing both of them against their seats. The world outside spun, a blur of treetops and sky, before the ground suddenly rose up to meet them with a bone-rattling jolt.

The crash itself felt like an eternity—a gut-wrenching mix of twisting metal and bone-shaking impacts. For a moment, Wolffe was sure they were done for. His grip on the controls tightened as the shuttle careened towards the swamp, its fuselage skidding through the muck before coming to an abrupt, jarring halt. The sound of groaning metal filled the air, followed by an eerie silence.

He was breathing hard, disoriented, and his ears rang. For a moment, he just sat there, fighting to clear the fog in his mind. Then, he turned to her. Perdita was still in her seat, eyes wide but alert, a few cuts and bruises on her face from the impact and her hitting the glass viewport, but—thank the stars—still breathing.

“Princess,” he breathed, his tone softer now, betraying the storm of emotions he’d tried to mask. “You okay?”

She didn’t respond immediately, her hand pressed against the side of her head as she checked herself for injuries. It was then that Wolffe realized how deeply he’d been holding his breath. The relief flooding through him was overwhelming, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he let himself be vulnerable, his concern for her slipping through the cracks of his tough exterior.

Perdita finally looked over at him, her lips curling into a small smirk, despite the blood trickling from a gash on her temple. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Wolffe’s lips twitched, but his gaze softened. "Maybe later," he muttered, then quickly turned his attention to the wreckage around them. "We need to get out of here. Now."

✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧

That was how he had ended up slogging through waist-deep, murky water, making his way toward what he could only loosely call civilization. If you could even label it that in Hutt-controlled territory. Still, it was precisely the area's reputation for being lawless and corrupt that had sparked the decision to come here in the first place. Nal Hutta, despite the Empire’s claims of dominance, remained firmly beyond their grasp. But in the chaos and uncertainty of this place, there was opportunity—a chance for both of them to regroup, to blend in with the shadows and find something they desperately needed: new clothes, supplies, and a ship the Empire wasn’t tracking.

The only problem now, however, was the eerie sound of water sloshing quietly beneath their boots, a constant reminder of how far from safety they truly were. There was no conversation, no words exchanged between them as they waded through the murky waters. Silence had become their constant companion. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, either. Their interactions had devolved into either tense, frustrated silence or harsh words. Gone were the days of lighthearted banter that had once filled their conversations during the war.

It hadn't taken long for Wolffe to realize that the fall of the Jedi Order had profoundly changed Perdita. The peaceful presence she had once projected, that calming aura she used to exude, had been dulled. In its place, there was a rawness to her emotions—a sharpness in her gaze and a palpable edge to her every move. Wolffe had seen glimpses of this before, flashes of intense emotion that cut through her usually serene exterior, but now, those moments were no longer rare. They were becoming the norm. And it was in this silence, as the water lapped at their feet, that he found himself unsure of where they stood now—or where they were heading.

He’d read her file shortly after the fall of the Jedi Order, desperate to find any shred of information that might explain which of the Jedi he had known were still alive—and, more hauntingly, which ones had perished, and how. Perdita’s name had appeared on the list of the missing, along with that of her padawan. At the time, that brief mention had sparked a small flicker of hope in him, something to hold onto as he navigated the confusion and loss of those early days. His ears had remained attuned, waiting for any news, any whisper that might tell him more.

But, despite all the time that had passed since their reunion, he still hadn’t found the courage to ask her about the whereabouts of her padawan. The silence surrounding that question had remained a heavy weight between them, one Wolffe wasn’t willing to lift. He could feel it in the air between them—an unspoken truth that the padawan had likely met the same grim fate as so many others. The odds were too high, the likelihood of survival too slim. He had seen too much in the aftermath of Order 66 to believe otherwise. He had learned, painfully, that the Empire’s reach was long and merciless.

"He’s fine—" Perdita's voice cut through the silence, her words tight with tension as they waded through the water. The sentence hung in the air, heavy with the unsaid. Wolffe hated it when she did that. He hated how she seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, even without a single word exchanged between them. It wasn't that he could fault her for it; after all, she had never once intruded on his thoughts since they had found each other again. Perdita respected his boundaries, never reaching into his mind the way others might have. But she couldn’t help when his emotions grew too loud, too raw, for her to ignore.

She always seemed to sense it—when his heart clenched, when his thoughts wandered into the darker corners of his past. She could feel the weight of his unresolved questions, his guilt, his fears. But there was something else, too—something deeper in her tone that he couldn’t quite place. It was as if, in that one brief sentence, she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him.

Wolffe didn’t respond immediately, but the silence that followed was thick with the tension of unspoken truths. Perdita’s assurances weren’t enough to silence the nagging doubt in his mind, but he knew better than to press her on it. He assumed she wasn’t ready to share, and that was something he could respect, even if it ate away at him.

"You are free to ask what happened if you like," Perdita spoke softly, her voice devoid of the sharp edge that had marked most of their exchanges since they’d been reunited. Gone was the venom, the anger that had become familiar whenever she addressed him. Instead, there was a quiet resignation in her tone, something fragile that caught Wolffe off guard. She seemed different now—less guarded, but in a way that spoke of deep, hidden sorrow. That sadness, creeping into her voice, halted his movements. He paused mid-step, his boots sinking slightly deeper into the murky water as he turned to face her fully.

The air between them felt thick with something unspoken, an invitation to tread where they had never dared before. Her eyes were distant, almost lost in a memory, as though she had seen something he couldn’t, something far beyond the shadows of Nal Hutta. He searched her face for some sign of her usual composure, but it was no longer there. The flicker of vulnerability in her eyes made his heart tighten in a way he hadn’t expected. He swallowed, unsure of what to say.

"It is not my business—" he began, but she interrupted him, her voice firmer now, tinged with something that bordered on resolve.

"Nonsense," she said sharply, though the bite in her words was softened by the underlying emotion. "You threw away so much to help me. You are at the very least owed an explanation if you desire it."

Her words lingered between them, carrying the weight of a history neither of them had fully confronted. Wolffe felt a strange stirring in his chest. Perdita had always been one to keep her secrets, and to offer even a hint of explanation was something rare, something she clearly didn’t give lightly. He could see the effort it took for her to even offer this. She wasn’t asking for his pity, but perhaps, for understanding—a moment of honesty in the aftermath of all they had lost.

He took a step closer, his voice low, steady, as though each word carried weight he didn’t want to acknowledge. "I didn’t do it for an explanation, Princess. I did it because I know you are a good person, someone who didn’t deserve to suffer. I didn’t want to be complicit in causing you pain," he admitted, the truth falling from his lips without hesitation.

There was a long pause between them, the weight of his words sinking into the murky water surrounding them. For a moment, Wolffe wondered if she would respond with bitterness or if she would retreat into the walls she’d built so carefully around herself. But instead, she simply nodded, as though the admission was both expected and understood. It was a moment of quiet connection between them, a rare honesty amidst all the lies and deceit they had both endured.

Perdita inhaled deeply, her shoulders tightening, as if bracing herself for the weight of the memories she was about to relive. She spoke softly, almost to herself. "We were on an assignment off-world. Onderon. We were assisting Gerrera’s forces—fighting the Separatists trying to reclaim the system.” Her eyes unfocused, drifting back to the distant horizon as if the memory was replaying in her mind. "When it happened... when everything fell apart, his men helped Zatt and I escape."

Wolffe’s chest tightened at the mention of Zatt. The padawan. His thoughts flickered briefly to the child, imagining the fear in his eyes as his world crumbled. He said nothing, allowing Perdita to continue, knowing she needed to speak.

"Kenobi sent out a message from the temple, warning survivors not to return, so we did that—we ran. Hiding where we could, wherever we thought we were safe. But as the Empire began taking over system after system, it became harder for someone like me to stay hidden, especially with a child. A child who doesn’t look anything like me." She shook her head, the sorrow clear in her voice. "It draws attention, and we couldn’t keep pretending that he was my flesh and blood. The Empire’s reach was too long, and the risks... they became too high."

Her voice faltered for a moment, a brief crack in her otherwise composed demeanor. Wolffe’s heart ached at the thought of how much she had carried alone during that time. She had been a beacon of strength in the war, but even the strongest of people break when they carry too much.

"So, I got him back to his people." Perdita’s voice hardened slightly as she continued, as if her decision was one she had replayed in her mind a thousand times. "They promised me that they would protect him. And... I trust that he is alright. I trust in the Force. He’s—" She paused, her words catching in her throat for a moment, as though the weight of them was almost too much to bear. "He’s a good kid. He deserves the chance to be a kid."

Wolffe felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to her words. The image of a child, a bright and hopeful young soul, caught in the crossfire of a war he couldn’t fully understand, hit him harder than he expected. Perdita had risked everything to ensure the boy’s safety, even if it meant letting go of him. He could see the love and the pain in her eyes, the impossible decision she had made out of love for a child who wasn’t hers by blood, but had become her responsibility all the same.

"You did what you had to do," Wolffe said quietly, stepping closer still. "You did what was right."

Perdita looked at him then, her eyes searching his, almost as if looking for confirmation that she wasn’t alone in her choices. "I hope I did," she murmured, more to herself than to him, her voice breaking slightly. "I hope he’s safe. That he’s somewhere far from this war... that he can live a life outside of the Empire's reach."

The silence that followed was filled with the weight of everything they had both lost, everything they had both endured. And yet, despite the darkness surrounding them, Wolffe could feel a quiet strength growing between them. Perdita’s pain was raw, but she wasn’t letting it consume her. She had made sacrifices, had fought for a future that didn’t belong just to her, but to someone else—a child who deserved a chance to grow up, untouched by the horrors of the galaxy.

"You’ll find him again," Wolffe said, his voice firm with the certainty of his words. Perdita’s gaze softened slightly, the tiniest hint of hope flickering in her eyes. "I hope you’re right, Wolffe," she replied quietly. "I really do."

Wolffe watched as a small tear escaped the corner of her eye, a fragile drop of emotion she couldn’t quite hold back. For a moment, it hung there, suspended in time, before she quickly brushed it away, as though to erase the vulnerability that had slipped through her defenses. "We should keep moving," she said, her voice steady, but there was a faint tremor beneath the surface—one that Wolffe could feel, even if she tried to hide it.

"Hey—" Wolffe’s voice was hesitant, laced with concern. He took a step closer, unsure if she would push him away.

"Nightfall is approaching," she replied quickly, her tone resolute, though the effort to mask her emotions was clear. Wolffe knew the routine, the constant push forward, the need to keep moving. It had been their mantra ever since they’d been thrust into this war-torn galaxy together, but something about the cold finality in her voice made him hesitate.

He couldn’t just leave her like this—not when he saw the raw pain etched so deeply into her face.

Without thinking, he placed a hand gently on her shoulder, his grip light but firm. He turned her body slowly to face him, not allowing her to keep walking. Her eyes met his, wide with surprise, and in that brief moment, Wolffe saw a fresh wave of tears gathering at the corner of her eyes—tears that threatened to spill over, despite her best efforts to hold them in.

"Perdita," he whispered her name, his voice softer than he intended, but full of meaning. It was the first time he’d said her name, the first time since their reunion, and the sound of it seemed to cut through the thick, heavy air between them.

She sucked in a sharp breath at the sound of it, as if hearing it aloud was a jolt to her system. Wolffe noticed the subtle shift in her expression—the way her eyes softened, the way her breath hitched, as though his voice had pierced a wall she had so carefully constructed around herself.

For a brief moment, she looked like the woman he had once known, back when they were fighting side by side in the war. But then, the mask cracked just enough for him to see the depth of the grief she had buried inside. "I... I don’t remember you ever saying my name," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. It was almost as though saying it aloud brought the reality of everything they’d been through into sharper focus, forcing her to confront the distance that had grown between them.

Wolffe’s heart tightened at her words. He hadn’t meant to bring back those old wounds, but somehow, he had. He realized then that, for all the battles they had fought together, all the missions they had survived, they had never truly stopped long enough to talk, to heal. Back then, it had always been "General" or "General Halle" in the field. A title, a role. There had been no room for anything else. Since their reunion, he’d stuck to calling her by the nickname she had loathed, a habit formed from years of familiarity, but it had never been her. He had never truly seen her until now, in this fragile moment of shared silence.

“Sorry, Jedi aren’t supposed to be weak,” she muttered, her voice laced with self-derision. She reached up to brush the tears from her face, as though to erase the vulnerability she had just allowed herself to show. But before her hand could make contact, Wolffe stopped her, gently intercepting her movement.

“Perdita,” he spoke her name softly, his voice quiet but steady, “you aren’t weak.”

His hand found hers, but instead of simply holding it, he gently guided it away from her face. His thumb traced the delicate line of her cheek, his touch light, almost reverent, as though he was afraid of breaking something even more fragile than the tears she had shed. He had never been one to shy away from battle, from hard decisions, but this felt different. In that simple act, in that moment, he was offering something she had probably not had in far too long: tenderness.

The gesture wasn’t necessary, not in any practical sense. He knew she could wipe the tears away herself. But there was something inside him, something deep and unspoken, that made him want to help ease the burden she carried. And so, with each gentle sweep of his thumb, he felt a warmth spread inside him—an unexpected pride. This was not just about shielding her from the storm outside. It was about giving her the chance to fight the battles within herself, the ones she had been fighting alone for so long.

She had always been alone in this—carrying the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders, trying to make sense of everything that had been ripped away. But for the first time in what felt like forever, she didn’t have to do it alone. He was here, and he wanted to be here.

Her breath caught in her throat as he traced the scar that ran along her cheek. It was an old one, from long ago when she was a padawan, yet it was still part of her. It was a reminder of what she had survived. And as his fingers lingered there, a quiet admission slipped from his lips, barely above a whisper, but filled with meaning. “And you always were better than most of them in that Temple,” he said quietly, the words rolling out with the ease of someone who had seen the truth from the start, but had never said it aloud. “You were always different. You are different.”

The words hung between them, heavy with sincerity, and for a brief moment, it seemed as though time stood still. Perdita blinked, taken aback, her chest tightening as his words settled in. No one had ever said that to her—not like this, not with this kind of raw honesty. There was no judgment, no expectation. Only the simple truth, spoken with care.

She didn’t know how to respond. There had been so many voices over the years, so many opinions of who she was, what she should have been, who she had failed to become. But Wolffe wasn’t like the others. His words weren’t meant to fix her. They weren’t some hollow comfort, a fleeting reassurance to make her feel better. They were a quiet acknowledgment of everything she had been through, everything she still carried. It wasn’t just about the battles she’d fought or the scars she wore, inside and out. It was about who she was—the woman standing before him, still fighting, still surviving, despite it all. And for the first time in a long time, she felt as though she didn’t have to hide from it.

Wolffe, who had seen her at her best and her worst, who had fought alongside her before and now when the galaxy was falling apart, stood before her not as a soldier, not as a comrade, but as someone who saw her. Really saw her.

Her breath shuddered, but this time, the tears that welled up were different. They were not born of sorrow or loss, but of something more profound—a release. A moment of pure honesty, of being seen, of being understood.

For a long moment, she couldn’t speak, the words stuck in her throat, but she didn’t need to. Instead, she simply met his gaze, her hand reaching up to rest on his wrist, the quiet connection between them saying everything that needed to be said.

Wolffe, in turn, held her gaze with a quiet determination. He wasn’t going to push her. He wasn’t going to demand anything from her. He simply stayed there, his presence solid and unwavering, offering her the one thing she had always needed more than anything else: understanding.

“Thank you, Wolffe,” she whispered, her voice low and filled with gratitude. It wasn’t just for saving her, not just for the battles he had fought for her, but for something deeper—something she hadn’t realized she needed until now. Thankful for the way he had listened, how he had seen her when no one else had, and for the care he was offering so freely, without asking for anything in return.

How the Jedi had seen attachments like this as a danger showed Perdita just how misguided the order was.

For a moment, everything else faded away. There was no war, no Empire hunting them down, no scarred past between them. It was just the two of them, standing in this fragile space where words didn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wolffe’s lips—one she hadn’t seen in what felt like ages, not since that last day at the Jedi Temple, before everything fell apart. A quiet, familiar expression, filled with that old, comforting confidence. It was a smirk that reminded her of the man she once fought alongside, and yet, there was something different about it now—something softer, something more.

Without warning, Wolffe leaned in, and the smirk, like a subtle, unspoken promise, grazed her skin as he pressed the lightest of kisses to her temple. It was brief, but it lingered in a way that left her breathless, like a gentle caress against both her skin and a part of her soul she’d not quite acknowledged before. She could feel the warmth of his lips, the softness, the tenderness in the gesture—a contrast to the rugged soldier she had always known him to be.

Her heart skipped a beat, and for the briefest of moments, it felt as though the world had slowed down, leaving only the quiet intimacy of the moment between them. She didn’t pull away, didn’t move, instead she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of him there, so close, yet so carefully distant.

When he pulled back, his face softened, but the smirk was still there, like a secret they shared.

“Anytime, Princess,” he said, his voice low, but his tone teasing—though there was something more in it now. Something that hadn’t been there before. He called her “Princess” but now instead of in the heat of an argument, the word now carried a weight she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a jest anymore.

Her breath caught for a moment, and she found herself searching his eyes, as if trying to make sense of the moment, of the unexpected depth in his words, his touch. There was no pretense between them now—no shields, no walls. Just the raw honesty that had grown between them in the shared emotions of their joint situation.

She could see it now. The way he looked at her was different. Not with the same respect he had shown in the heat of battle, but with something warmer, softer—something that made her heart race a little faster. It wasn’t just the soldier standing before her anymore. It was Wolffe—the man who had always respected her and was grateful for saving his life. Now, as if trying to prove he was worthy of her by tossing away all he’d known to keep her safe.

“Wolffe…” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t quite know what to say. There was too much between them now, too many emotions swirling in the space they shared, to fit into just a few words. She didn’t need to say it all out loud. He already knew.

His hand, still resting lightly on her shoulder, tightened ever so slightly, not possessive, but protective—gentle, yet firm. Her eyes, searching his face, spoke volumes—questions, uncertainties, and perhaps even a hint of something she wasn’t yet ready to name. He saw it all, the raw vulnerability behind her gaze, and yet, there was no fear in it. Just honesty.

Wolffe knew she wasn’t the kind of woman to let herself need anyone, especially not someone like him. He had seen the way she fought alone, the way she carried the weight of the galaxy on her shoulders with the stoic grace of a Jedi. But now, in this quiet space between them, he could sense the shift. She didn’t need to say everything. He already knew.

Gently, as though allowing her the space to pull away if she needed, he moved his hand to tenderly cup her cheek, his thumb brushing against the smoothness of her skin. He wasn’t trying to push, only to offer her the quiet reassurance that he was there, unwavering. His fingers lingered at the side of her head, where the soft, shorn hair met her scalp. He hadn’t yet asked whether that style had been a choice, or a necessity born of their circumstances. They hadn’t been running long, but already, he’d grown unkempt—his face dotted with the beginnings of a beard, his hair far past regulation. Yet, there was something captivating about the contrast between her long hair and the one side she’d kept so short. It highlighted the delicate curve of her neck, leading down to her nape. As his fingertips brushed over it, he found himself mesmerized by the beauty in the unexpected—a striking blend of sharpness and softness that left him almost breathless.

Her breath caught, just a whisper of a sound, as his touch lingered against her skin. Her eyes fluttered closed for a brief moment, as though afraid that if she opened them, the softness of the sensation would slip away, leaving nothing but the cold reality of their world.

"I like this," he confessed, his voice low, tinged with a quiet warmth. His fingers brushed over the short hair again, the gesture casual, yet it carried a weight he hadn’t expected.

Wolffe couldn’t quite understand it—the way his stomach fluttered at something so simple, so seemingly trivial. To touch her hair, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips—it was enough to make his heart race, to stir a feeling deep inside him that he couldn't place. It was a strange blend of yearning, of wanting more, and yet, at the same time, a quiet anticipation that left him breathless, as though this moment was something more than he could put into words.

Perdita let out a soft scoff, the sound tinged with an edge of frustration. "I didn’t really have much choice in the matter," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. The puzzled furrow of his brows seemed to silently demand more, urging her to explain. With a reluctant sigh, she did. "Hair got caught trying to escape not too long ago. It was easier to just cut myself free and deal with the consequences later," she confessed, the words coming out heavier than she intended. There was a fleeting vulnerability in her tone, one she quickly buried beneath the weight of practicality.

Inside, she knew it sounded ridiculous. The Jedi had always taught her that vanity was a frivolous concern, something beneath the greater mission. It was one of the reasons she had always kept herself veiled. She had listened to the council’s recommendation to cover herself in fear of leading her peers to stumble with their own vows, as many women at the temple did.

But standing here now, with Wolffe's gaze lingering on her, she felt a sudden self-consciousness she hadn’t expected. There was something raw in the way his eyes held her—something that seemed almost hungry. And in that moment, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of uncertainty about the simplest of things: the unexpected and frankly unwanted cut made her worry about his opinion. It seemed so trivial, yet she couldn’t help but wonder how he would view it.

Wolffe’s hand remained at her cheek, his thumb brushing over her skin with a slow, deliberate rhythm. He watched her carefully, the softness in her eyes, the faint tension in her posture as she spoke. There was something about the way she seemed so conflicted over something as trivial as an unwanted haircut that made him smile. But it wasn’t just any smile—it was a smile filled with admiration, warmth, and, surprisingly, a bit of boldness.

He took a deep breath, his gaze locking onto hers with a playful intensity, as though testing the waters before plunging in. "I’m about to say something that would’ve definitely landed me in hot water when you were my superior..." His voice was low, steady, and there was a subtle weight to his words that hinted at something more. "But the truth is, you’re an incredibly attractive woman. I always noticed things—like how the faint shape of your body would show through those robes, or how your eyes, no matter how stoic, could still be so captivating."

He paused, meeting her gaze. There was no sense in pretending anymore. They had too little to lose, and he knew she'd likely sensed his thoughts already. This confession, he decided, needed to come from his lips, not his mind.

He leaned in slightly, the intensity of the moment drawing them even closer. “But right now? In this filthy swamp, covered in blood, sweat, and tears?” He let out a quiet chuckle, one that mixed affection with something deeper, more genuine. "Even with your... unique hairstyle," he teased with a warm smile, "you’re damn enticing, if you ask me."

The words hung in the air between them, charged with honesty and something far more intimate than he'd expected to reveal.

She blinked at him, the comment catching her off guard, and for a second, Wolffe thought she might blush. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow at him, her lips pulling into a teasing smirk.

“Well, aren’t you the smooth talker,” she replied with a sarcastic, yet amused tone, trying to cover the way her heart fluttered at his words. She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before responding with a slight chuckle of her own. “If I’m being honest, I’ve kind of gotten used to the scruffy look,” she teased, her eyes lighting up with playful mischief. “I think it suits you. We’ve both seen better days, after all. It kind of fits this whole... runaway, no-one’s-gonna-catch-us vibe we’ve got going on.”

Wolffe let out a low laugh at that, the sound rich and genuine, and his thumb brushed across her cheek one more time before he dropped his hand. “Scruffy, huh?” he mused, his lips curving into a sly grin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Perdita shrugged, her expression shifting into something softer, more genuine beneath the teasing facade. “I’m just saying,” she added, her voice quieter now, “there’s something... enticing about someone who’s lost the need to keep up appearances.” She repeated his choice of words back to him.

He studied her for a moment, taking in the lightness in her words and the warmth in her eyes. He could see the change in her—the way she let down the walls just a little bit more, the way she let herself be a little more real with him.

“You’d better get used to the scruff. No guarantees we’ll be able to find razors anytime soon, so it’s going to be this for the foreseeable future,” he warned, referring to his own appearance.

Perdita’s lips curved into a playful smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as she regarded him. “Oh, trust me, I think I can handle it. It's not like I’m exactly looking pristine myself,” she teased, gesturing toward her own disheveled state. “Besides, if I’m going to keep surviving this runaway life, I’ll have to learn to appreciate the little things. Like scruffy Wolffe,” she added with a wink, the teasing tone in her voice softer now, the playful banter offering a shield, but beneath it was something more sincere.

Wolffe chuckled, the sound warm and genuine, and his gaze lingered on her a little longer than before, not just taking in her teasing words but the subtle way her posture had shifted, the quiet vulnerability that had seeped into her demeanor. She leaned into his hold, and at some point he hadn’t noticed that she’d settled her hands on his waist. There was something refreshing about the way they could still find humor in all of this, despite the chaos surrounding them.

“I’m not exactly worried about my looks right now,” he admitted, his voice quieting just a touch, something more serious weaving through. “But if you think I look good this way, then maybe I should hold onto it a little longer.” He raised an eyebrow, the playfulness still there, but now it was paired with a flicker of something deeper, something that hadn’t been there before.

Perdita tilted her head, studying him closely. Her expression softened, and the teasing edge from earlier seemed to fade, replaced by something more sincere. “I’ll admit... there’s something more real about it. It's like the soldier is finally disappearing, and what's left is just... Well, Wolffe.”

“Well, good to know Princess…” he said. Perdita raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “Princess again?” she asked, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “You really can’t let that go, can you?”

Wolffe grinned, his eyes glinting with mischievous humor. “What can I say? It suits you. You’ve got that royal vibe, even when you’re covered in dirt and mud.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Royal vibe? Please, I’m far from royalty.” She gave him a nudge with her shoulder, her voice light but laced with curiosity. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

He let out a chuckle, the sound warm and genuine. “I don’t know... I guess it’s just suited to you at the moment. If I didn’t know who you were, I’d assume someone as pretty as you would be royalty.”

Perdita blinked, her expression softening. “Well, I don’t know if that’s true,”

Wolffe’s grin deepened. “Don’t sell yourself short, Princess. You’ve got a lot more going on than you give yourself credit for.”

She shook her head with a smile, the playfulness in her eyes still dancing. “Alright, alright. But I’m not letting you off the hook for that nickname anytime soon.”

He shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance, though there was a glint of warmth in his eyes. “Sorry but you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Perdita’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the teasing faded, leaving something more honest, more vulnerable behind. “You know,” she said quietly, “even though it’s been... insane, I don’t mind these moments. The ones where we can laugh, forget the world for a little while. And hey, we’re not screaming at each other for once.”

Wolffe met her gaze, his smile slipping into something more genuine, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “I get what you mean,” he said softly. “But just so you know, I’m still going to argue with you. Count on it.”

Perdita raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at her lips. “Oh yeah? You’re not done with that?”

“Of course not. You’re easily the most vexing woman I’ve ever met,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Vexing?” she repeated, a mischievous glint in her eyes before she shoved him playfully. The sudden motion caught him off guard, and he stumbled backward, sinking deeper into the murky water than he’d planned.

“Oh, you are not getting away with that one, Princess.” Wolffe scoffed, reaching for her, but his hand froze mid-air, caught in some unseen force. He blinked, startled, as Perdita flashed a sly grin and wiggled her brows at him.

“Sorry, what was that?” she teased, her voice light as she turned to walk away. “Can’t hear you over being this vexing.”

Wolffe stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, before finally feeling the hold around his hand loosen. As she started walking, he could still feel the playful tug of her teasing energy. She glanced back over her shoulder, tossing him a look that spoke volumes—like maybe, just maybe, things could be okay if they kept going down this path.

With a quiet chuckle, he followed her, the promise of more moments like this could make his decision worthwhile. It wouldn’t be easy. They’d still clash. Danger was always there, lurking in the background. But if life on the run could be this... chaotic, but somehow enjoyable, he was more than willing to take on a little more conflict.

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