cw: afab reader x commandor fox, fluff, a bit of angst
HEADCANON: Fox doesn’t dance. No. Never. That all changes, however, when he sees you — Jedi General — that always makes him toe the line between order and action
PAIRING: Clone x reader, Commander Fox x Jedi reader
Coruscant. The Grand Rotunda. Late evening. Nineteen-hundred, local.
The Republic never truly rests. Not even a celebration. But that was already a given.
Even under chandeliers glowing gold, festivities exchanged between pleasantries and warm food. Nor did the clink of glasses, the soft lull of music, or the subtle scent of sweetfruit wine could quite erase the weight in the air. It was a celebration -- yes, Fox knew that -- but only in the way a funeral might be called a gathering.
The tension remains -- pressed into the backs of every clone’s neck like a second collar. Even if they were technically called in to... unwind and revel in a moment's rest or as you -- their Jedi general, all grace and danger wrapped in robes that never sat quite right -- called it "a rare chance to breathe commander"
But how could a man like Fox exactly fucking breathe, when he didn’t know what to do with air unless it was barked out in orders?
Sentinel straight and posture poised and perfect. His crimson armor, though a little looser on his lither and brooding form, was still gleaming in polished arcs beneath the warm glow of the lights overhead. His helm resting under one arm. Never far from his grip. Would rather cut his ankles sideways than let his weapon stray from his grip.
He hadn't touched the food. Hadn't dared sip the wine. He wouldn't let his guard drop -- not even now. Not even here. Not even... Not even for you.
You were dangerous in ways the war hadn’t prepared him for.
The kind of Jedi the archives would pretend didn’t exist -- too sharp at the edges, too radiant in motion, too much skin between robe folds for a council room.
He’d seen you end a skirmish with a flick of your saber and start a diplomatic meltdown with just a look. All pretty eyes and a mouth that never moved unless it meant something -- Fox had never seen someone weaponize silence like you did. Or laughter. Or kindness. You wielded those just as deftly as your saber. And that was the problem.
You were dangerous.
Not in the way most Jedi were.
Not with just the blade or the Force.
You were dangerous because you looked at him.
Past the armor. Past the rank. Past the locked jaw and the sleepless eyes and the thousands of walls he’d bricked up inside himself just to survive.
He hated that.
And kriff did he crave it too
The Jedi weren’t supposed to be beautiful. They weren’t supposed to make men or clones forget they were soldiers. They weren’t supposed to laugh the way you just had across the room, head tossed back, teeth flashing like some forbidden thing carved from starlight.
Fox dragged his eyes back to his hands -- gloved, clenched, immovable. Clearing his throat and blinking his eyes rapidly to try and focus on things within his grasp and control.
He could kill with them. Break with them. Command with them.
But he’d never learned how to hold someone without fear.
But then there you were -- suddenly walking toward him through golden light and warm music, a little too much of your shoulder bare beneath the drape of ceremonial robes, gaze set on him like you’d already decided something.
He told himself to stay still. Swallowing like a man parched as he overheard you excuse yourself smoothly from senators and council leaders who were speaking on matters he never quite... wanted to understand. No intention of listening. Too pristine and weaponized for matters as declarative and political for that. He was a soldier. That was all after all.
Fox’s ears caught the rustle of your glossy and silky fabric before his eyes allowed the indulgence of watching your approach again. You moved like the war hadn’t touched you -- but he knew better. That lightness in your step was trained, honed, rebuilt after too many nights stitching yourself back together with grit and sheer will.
And now? Now you were crossing the floor like you didn’t know you were the most arresting thing in the room.
He hated crowds. He hated these “breathers,” these forced illusions of peace. But somehow, he hated more the thought of you crossing this floor and turning away before you reached him.
“Commander,” you said, voice warm like evening spice.
“General,” he managed, the word clipped but careful. As if even your title burned in his mouth.
You didn’t stop until you were toe-to-toe. Up close, you smelled like whatever those off-world flowers were someone had arranged along the marble staircase -- sweet, a little wild. Your lips curved as your gaze dropped to the grip he had on his own wrist, fists tight, shoulders locked. You looked up at him like he was a problem you didn’t mind solving.
“You look like you’re about to be deployed,” you said, soft, amused. “Has anyone told you you’re allowed to enjoy yourself?”
“No, ma'am,” Fox replied instantly.
You snorted. “Wrong answer.”
Then your hand -- bare, elegant, calloused just enough to tell the truth about your life -- rose, hovered, and touched the crook of his elbow.
Fox stiffened. His throat bobbed with a dry swallow.
You leaned in, just enough to murmur where only he could hear, “I won’t bite. Unless ordered.”
He exhaled sharply. A sound not quite a laugh but restrained.
“I don’t know how to dance,” he said, low. A confession that felt more like a surrender.
You tilted your head at his words, smiling more playfully than really petrubed at his words. “Good. Neither do I.” Then, bolder now as ever, Sansanna spice on legs and beautiful haloing hair, you reached for his hand. “We’ll learn together.”
It would’ve been easier to say no. It would’ve been smarter.
But when your fingers slid against his glove, patient and warm and fearless... and gentle. Something in him cracked.
Fox let you lead him to the floor.
And for once -- just once -- he followed.
The music swelled around you as you both found your place amidst the dancers. It was soft at first, a tender and amiable rhythm that made the room feel like a hazy dream. Revnog after a long day -- a world where everything but the two of you faded into the background in peace.
Fox’s chest tightened as your fingers remained lightly wrapped around his, the pressure subtle, yet there was something unspoken in it. His gloved hand, usually so sure and commanding, now felt almost foreign against yours. A sense of unease and... regret choking through his gut and armor at wanting to strip his glove then and there just to feel your bare touch on his calloused and coarse palms.
His heart thudded, each beat an erratic reminder that he didn’t know how to dance. He didn’t know how to move in this kind of space. How to exist in it without becoming the soldier first.
But you didn’t need him to be a soldier now didn't you?
You led him first with slow and tenative steps, moving in time with the music, guiding him in that unhurried way that only someone who knew what they were doing could. The warmth of your body was close now, almost too close. The scent of sweetfruit wine, mingled with something more elusive -- more you -- filled his senses. The fragrant aroma of something saccharine and cloying, glazing his nostrils all honeyed and syrupy.
He could feel his pulse quicken. The space between the two of you felt like a chasm, but the weight of your gaze made it feel like you were pulling him in closer, inch by aching kriffing inch.
"You’re too stiff," you murmured up at him, a teasing smile dancing on your lips. Voice low, soft, coaxing. "Relax. It’s just a dance."
Except everything in him screamed that it wasn’t.
It was the way your body moved so fluidly, as if everything about you was unbound -- while he was wrapped in layers of armor, both literal and emotional. His body was a fortress, one he built brick by brick, a thousand cautions echoing in his chest.
But when you rested your other hand lightly against his chest -- right where his heart hammered so damn loudly -- Fox inhaled sharply, eyes darting to the curve of your lips with reckless abandon. Unraveling and uncontrolled
“You’re not a soldier right now, Fox,” you whispered, pressing into the space where the tension clung to him. “You’re just you.”
He blinked, throat tightening again. "I don't know who that is."
The words hung between them like an invitation, a delicate thread of truth that Fox wanted to pull away from but couldn’t. Your smile faded for the briefest of moments, just enough for him to see the flicker of something behind your eyes. Something far more... vulnerable than anything he’d expected. Then it was gone again. Dispersed and dematerializing. Tucked away into something lost and nonexistent that neither of them could quite shake.
For a moment, there was silence.
Nothing but the mellow and tranquil strings of the vioddle and bandfill filled the air. A placid and mild backdrop between the two of you as time seem to stretch on and on.
But in that karking silence, Fox realized he was still holding you.
His grip, though not tight, was firm enough to keep you in place, like an anchor amidst the sea of unspoken things. His palm burned where it pressed against your back, the armor’s edges strangely at odds with the softness of your robes. All silk and smooth on your waning and glowing skin. And you didn’t kriffing pull away. You didn’t flinch. You just moved, and he followed, instinct taking over where his mind faltered.
You were right. Kriff. Kriff. Kriff. You were right.
He wasn’t a soldier in this moment nor a clone nor a number. He was just... Fox. A man shelled in armor and rough skin. Holding this beautiful beautiful Jedi in his arms. All idyllic, vivid, and lush.
And that... that terrified him.
Because a clone could hide behind orders and discipline. A clone could just bury things deep and keep the world at a distance. Remain a number. Remain just another copy of a copy. A simulacra of someone now distant and lost.
But here. Now. With you so close, he couldn’t hide.
Not from you. Not from the weight of your gaze or the quiet truth that you saw him -- all of him -- in a way that no one else had. And it wasn’t even a judgment. It was just... understanding. Like you knew exactly what it took to break someone like him, and somehow, you weren’t interested in doing that. You were just... there. And that was worse.
That he had allowed himself to be led, to surrender to something as simple as a dance.
Fox wanted to pull away -- karking needed to -- but then you shifted just so, your body pressing closer. The smell of your hair, sweet and soft against his cheek, broke any semblance of control he still had left.
It was dangerous. So dangerous.
“Don’t think too hard about it,” you whispered again, a little breathless now as his grip subtly tightened. “Just… move with me.”
Every second that passed, every subtle movement and glide of your graceful and limber body against his, felt like it was carving him open, the walls he’d spent years constructing starting to crumble one small piece at a time.
This wasn’t command or survival.
This was something else entirely.
This was him, stripped of everything but raw desire and the tremble in his chest that wouldn’t stop.
Fox’s grip tightened just slightly at that realization. Swallowing like drought and Tattoine sand was forced down his throat.
Afraid that if he let go, you might vanish like the fading warmth of a dream. The familiar thundering of his heart against the thin layers of his armor. Motile and rapid, but this time it wasn’t from the adrenaline of battle or last-minute missions on end.
This time it was from.... the gradual and soft-hued intimacy of the moment -- the weight of your proximity. The way your gaze flicked between his eyes and his lips, so close that he could feel the warmth of your breath skimming the curve of his jaw.
He wanted to say something. Anything. Some quip, some sarcastic remark to break the tension. Something to ground him back in the world he knew. But there was nothing. Nothing but the steady rhythm of the music, the hum of the grand hall, and the gentle brush of your fingers across his shoulder.
Fox’s throat tightened again, and he had to fight to keep his mouth closed and gulp down the lump that had formed there. "I'm not sure I'm doing this right" he admitted, his voice low and gravelly, rough from years of commanding, barking orders, and keeping everything tightly wound within himself.
You stopped moving for a fraction of a second, pulling back just enough to look at him with those sharp eyes, like you could see straight into his soul.
"Then let me show you," you said softly, your hand resting lightly against his chest, right over his heart. "It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just... be here. With me."
Fox’s pulse stuttered, his whole body tensing involuntarily. "I’m not... really good at that General," he said again, more firmly this time, though it sounded more like an apology than anything else.
"But you’re trying," you whispered, your voice like velvet against the hard edges of his reality. "That’s all I need. Just you, here. With me."
And for the first time in his life, Fox wasn’t thinking of the next mission, or the next order, or the next battlefield. He wasn’t thinking of the weight of his armor or the duty to his brothers. He was thinking of you, and the way you made him feel... alive.
You smiled, that knowing, dangerous smile of yours. The one that had haunted him from the first moment he saw it from across the halls of the Jedi Temple, where you had stood, effortlessly commanding attention without saying a single word. That smile had always felt like a challenge, something that unsettled him, made his chest tighten in ways he wasn’t ready to admit . "Relax, Fox. We’re not fighting. We’re just... dancing."
And somehow, with you, with the softness of your touch again and the warmth of your gaze. Velvet, dulcet, and languid. He almost believed it.
The music swirled around you two again once more, a soothing backdrop that felt far away and, at the same time, more present than anything Fox had ever experienced. His movements more levelled and benign, less stiff, and more fluid as you guided him through the steps, your presence a balm to the turmoil churning inside him.
With you gleaming, saturated, and languid like this in his arms. All sugary smiles and dew-kissed eyes. Fox realized that he was no longer just Fox, the soldier. Fox the clone. Fox the commander. Fox CC-1010.
Something he hadn’t known he could be. Ever be.
And as the glowy ardent tempo and sequence lulled the both of you into a pattern that he could follow. With Fox slowly leading you in varied movements and motions that had no specific routine. Intimate. Bossoming... Devoted. Bolder now as he spins you around and grins when you laugh softly as he does so.
Fox realized that for the first time in months. Karabast probably years even.
The armor around his heart wasn’t the only thing keeping him safe anymore.
It was and will always be —
