I Think About The Clones A Lot

You tightened the last bolt on the starfighter's port stabilizer, your fingers aching from the hours of precision work. The ship gleamed under the hangar's harsh lights, its lines sharp and aggressive like the man who flew it. Captain Rex's ship. You'd spent the better part of the rotation on it, tweaking calibrations that most mechanics would have overlooked.

The hangar was quiet now. Most of the 501st clones were either in the mess hall or catching sleep in their temporary barracks. The rotation had been slow, and you'd taken advantage of the peace to focus on the task. The ship deserved attention. The pilot deserved it more.

You wiped your hands on the rag hanging from your belt and stepped back, inspecting your work. The stabilizer sat perfectly aligned. The hyperdrive motivator hummed clean. You'd replaced the coolant lines yourself, rerouted the auxiliary power conduit, and recalibrated the targeting systems. The ship would fly smoother than it had in weeks.

"Looks good."

The voice came from behind you, low and tired. You knew it already. You'd heard it giving orders across the hangar earlier, but now it carried a softer edge.

You turned. Captain Rex stood a few paces away, his armor still on but his helmet tucked under his arm. His hair was cropped short, regulation style, and shadows sat under his eyes. He looked exhausted. He also looked like someone had carved him from stone and forgot to add the soft parts.

"Thanks," you said. "She should handle better now. The port stabilizer was throwing off your trajectory by about two degrees. Nothing critical, but it would've worn down the gyro over time."

He stepped closer, running his hand along the hull. The gesture was almost reverent. His fingers traced the carbon scoring marks, relics of battles you'd never witnessed.

"Two degrees," he repeated. "I didn't notice."

"Most pilots wouldn't. But you would've felt it eventually, in a tight turn or a heavy atmosphere."

He turned to face you, and the full weight of his attention settled on your shoulders. His eyes were brown. Deep brown, like the old woods on planets you'd only read about. There was something careful in his gaze, the way he looked at you like he was cataloging every detail.

"Appreciate it," he said. "The boys and I have been running non-stop. Having a ship that actually works is a luxury."

You wanted to say something clever. Something that would make him smile or laugh or look at you differently. Instead you just shrugged. "It's my job."

A silence stretched between you. The kind that felt thick enough to push against. He was standing close. Closer than necessary. You could smell the recycled air from his armor, the faint metallic tang of blaster residue, and underneath it something clean and warm that was just him.

He reached for the tool kit on the crate beside you. At the same time, you reached for the same crate to set down your rag.

Your fingers brushed his.

The contact was brief. A whisper of skin against skin. But it sent a current through you that had nothing to do with static electricity. You froze. He froze too, his hand hovering mid-air.

You looked up at him. He was looking at your hand. Then his eyes lifted to yours, and something shifted in his expression. The careful soldier mask cracked, just a little.

"Sorry," you muttered, though you weren't sorry at all.

"No problem," he said. His voice was rougher now. He didn't pull his hand away.

You let your fingers linger on the crate, close to his. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. Your heart was hammering, and you were suddenly very aware of how your coverall fit against your chest, how your hands were still greasy from work, how your hair had probably escaped its tie hours ago.

His hands. You'd thought about his hands before. The way they gripped his blasters, the way they moved when he gestured during briefings. But now they were right there, within touching distance. Strong hands. Calloused. Capable. The kind of hands that could probably take you apart piece by piece, if he wanted to. The kind of hands that you were seeing in your more filthy dreams.

Your thoughts slipped further. They always did around him. You imagined those hands on your waist, on your hips, sliding under the rough fabric of your coverall. You imagined his mouth, that serious mouth, pressed against your neck while his fingers worked the fastenings of your clothes. His body against yours, hard and warm, the armor discarded somewhere on the floor. He would be careful at first, measured, the way he approached everything. But you didn't want careful. You wanted him to lose that control, just once. To grip you hard enough to leave marks. To make you forget every reason why this was a terrible idea.

You swallowed. The thoughts were getting too loud. They were going to show on your face eventually.

"Are you off duty?" you asked. The question came out before you could stop it.

He blinked, surprised. "Technically, yes. We're resting for the rotation. Why?"

"Drink," you said. "In my quarters. I've got a bottle of spotchka I've been saving for something special."

You watched him process the invitation. His jaw tightened. A muscle in his neck twitched. He was weighing something, calculating odds like he would in a battle simulation. You could see the moment his training told him to refuse. But you could also see the moment when something else, something more stubborn, pushed back.

"Your quarters," he repeated. "That's not exactly regulation."

"Neither is leaving a ship with a misaligned stabilizer," you said. "But people do what they need to do."

He almost smiled. Almost. The corner of his mouth twitched, and you counted it as a victory.

"Lead the way," he said.

You turned before he could change his mind, walking toward the corridor that led to the personnel quarters. The hangar doors slid shut behind you as you stepped into the hallway. His footsteps followed, steady and measured. A soldier's gait. You tried to match it, but your legs were shorter, and your steps felt frantic in comparison.

The quarters were cramped. A cot, a small table, a storage locker, a sonic shower. Your home for the duration of the war. You gestured for him to sit on the cot while you dug the bottle of spotchka from under your bunk.

He sat on the edge of the cot, his forearms resting on his knees, his helmet placed on the floor beside him. He looked too big for the space. Too sharp. Like a predator that had wandered into a cage meant for something smaller.

You poured two cups and handed him one. His fingers brushed yours again, deliberately this time. He held the contact for a moment longer than necessary.

"To good ships," you said, raising your cup.

"To good mechanics," he replied.

The spotchka burned going down. He didn't flinch. Clones were built for worse stuff.

You sat beside him on the cot. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling you closer. His shoulder brushed yours. You could feel the heat of him through his blacks, the thin layer of fabric that separated his skin from the armor.

"I shouldn't be here," he said quietly.

"No," you agreed. "But you are."

He turned to face you. His eyes were searching yours, looking for something. Hesitation. Doubt. Permission.

You gave him none of those.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His lips met yours, and the spotchka taste mixed with something sharper. He kissed like he flew starfighters—intense, precise, holding nothing back. His hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, and you melted into him.

Your hands found his chest. The fabric of his blacks was rough under your fingers. You wanted to peel it off him, to feel skin and scars and the heat of a body that wasn't designed for softness. He groaned against your mouth, and the sound sent a thrill down your spine.

The comm unit on his wrist beeped.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours for a second. His breath was ragged. The comm beeped again, more insistent.

"Sir," a voice crackled through the speaker. "We've got an update from command. Priority channel."

Rex straightened. The soldier snapped back into place, the transformation almost violent to witness. He grabbed his helmet, stood, and paused at the door.

"I have to—"

"Go," you said. Your voice was steadier than you expected.

He lingered for a heartbeat, then he was gone. The door slid shut behind him, leaving you alone in the small room with an empty cup and the ghost of his mouth on yours.

You touched your lips. They were still warm.

The exhilaration flooded through you, bright and sharp. He had kissed you. He had wanted to stay. For a moment, he had forgotten about duty and the war and everything else.

Then the fear settled in, cold and heavy.

You had jeopardized his career. If anyone found out—if his brothers saw something, if the wrong person noticed—he could lose his command. He could be reassigned. Court-martialed. You knew the rules. Fraternization between clones and civilians was strictly forbidden. The Republic had no room for complications like this.

You sat on the cot, staring at the door, and wondered if you had just ruined the only thing that made him feel like something more than a weapon.