Liar Liar (Part 1/?)
🫧 Part One - 79's
🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female Reader.
🫧 word count: 5k.
🫧 Plot: When you meet a so-called clone named Whisky at 79's, you're a bit flustered with the impression he left on you. Little did you know that you were now caught in a web of Commander Fox’s lie.
🫧 Chapter Warnings: Safe for work, alcohol consumption, lying, teasing, flirting, Corrie guard antics, Fox is a little shit, grumpy. AFAB Female reader.
🫧 Authors note: Hi! So this is going to be a short story about reader and Commander Fox. Be prepared for lots of flirting, angst, crying, fun and eventual smutty goodness! Enjoy. I've also posted most parts to my AO3 account (NaHoney).
“You gonna join us tonight?”
You glance up from your work, eyebrows raised. “And that would be…?”
“79’s, of course!” Thire grins, slinging his arm around one of his brothers. “We need a break.”
“He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had a night just to relax,” Hound chimes in, leaning casually against the wall, his helmet tucked under one arm.
They look at you expectantly as you mull it over. You rarely went out—especially not with the boys—but the idea of unwinding at 79’s didn’t sound half bad. Besides, your friend Pia was working tonight, and catching up with her had been long overdue.
“Sure,” you say, nodding as you distribute the last of the data files onto the desks for tomorrow’s shift. “I’ll be there.”
The troopers exchange approving smiles. “Should we ask Fox?” Hound wonders aloud, glancing at his brothers before shifting his gaze to you.
“Why bother?” Stone snorts from the doorway. “He always says no.”
You roll your eyes but can’t deny the truth in Stone’s words. You’d overheard Fox turn down countless invitations.
Anyway, he didn’t seem the type to let loose, especially with how rowdy the boys could get after a few rounds of Corellian ale.
“I don’t see the harm in asking him again,” you reply, shrugging. “But yeah, he’ll probably say no.”
They leave you with the task. You finish tidying up, making sure everything is prepped for tomorrow. The clock ticks closer to 1900 hours, but Fox still hasn’t returned from the Senate. Deciding you’ve waited long enough, you gather your things and head for the door.
Just as you hit the button to open it, the door hisses apart, and you nearly collide with the broad red armor of Commander Fox.
“Oh!” You step back quickly, almost tripping over your own feet. “There you are.”
Fox enters, his usual confident stride noticeably subdued. He moves to his desk, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath his armor.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” you continue, hovering uncertainly near the doorway.
A weary and almost impatient sigh filters through his modulator. “And why’s that?”
Something’s off. You’re used to his abrupt tone, but tonight there’s a heaviness to it that makes you hesitate with your answer
“Everything okay, Commander?” Your tone softens, concerned as you ignore his question.
“Fine,” he replies curtly, glancing over his shoulder. When he sees the worry etched on your face, he sighs again, this time sounding more human than soldier. “It’s just been a long day.”
You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I can imagine. You usually don’t finish this late at the Senate.”
He turns fully to face you, leaning back against his desk. His arms cross over his chest. “I’ve finished later,” he says dryly. “Is everything sorted for the morning?” He then asks, changing topic swiftly.
“Yes, Commander. Everyone has their files, and I put through an order for more supplies.”
“Such as?” He presses.
You hold your tongue and maintain a neutral expression. Back to his grumpy self, it seems.
“Extra medpacs, ammo, and rations. They should arrive by 0900 hours,” you list off, trying to sound efficient and competent, even though his scrutiny makes your blood simmer.
Fox nods absently, his visor fixed on you. Then he starts rattling off a checklist of additional tasks. Everything from inventory updates, personnel reports, security drills. You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, wondering why he insists on making everything harder than it needs to be.
“Like I said, Commander,” you interrupt gently but firmly when he finishes, “I’ve taken care of everything. For you.”
The ‘for you’ slips out sharper than intended, and you can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you see his posture stiffen slightly. Turning away, you head for the door, masking your irritation with a forced calm. Just before you step out, you hesitate, glancing back.
“I stayed because the boys wanted to see if you’d join us at 79’s tonight. I’ll tell them you’re busy.”
Because ‘busy’ always sounds better than ‘tired’.
⋅⋅───⊱༺ 🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅
“There she is!” Stone cheers the moment he spots you, raising his glass in a mock toast.
You grin as you weave through the packed club, the bass of music thudding in your chest, lights flickering in shades of blue and violet. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Typical 79’s.
As you reach the group, a chorus of nods and smiles greet you. Thire, Hound, and a few other Corrie Guards stand clustered together, already a few drinks in.
“Lookin’ good.” Hound nods appreciatively, earning a playful jab from you but accepting the compliment regardless. It’s not often you dress up, after all and the shirt you bought last month was too cute not to wear.
“Surprised to see you all behaving,” you tease, eyeing Thire’s drink before shifting to the man himself. “Especially you. No table dancing tonight?”
Thire groans, rubbing his head like the memory physically pains him. “I thought we all agreed not to bring that up.”
“Too hard to forget.” You smirk. “Especially the part where you fell flat on your face.”
Hound chokes on his drink, while Stone grins over the rim of his own. “I swear, the look on his face right before he went down—priceless.”
Thire mutters something about betrayal under his breath but smirks anyway.
“So, I take it the Commander isn’t coming?” Hound then asks, shifting the conversation as he leans closer.
You bite back a smart remark, still holding a minor grudge from your last interaction with Fox. Instead, you just shake your head. “Nope. He was really busy. Lots of files to go through.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Stone mutters, downing another sip.
You nod along, but despite your irritation, you can’t shake the image of Fox’s slumped posture, the exhaustion practically radiating off him. Still, you push the thought aside and excuse yourself, heading toward the bar.
Sliding onto a stool, you drum your fingers against the bartop, scanning the crowd until a familiar voice breaks through the noise.
“There’s my girl!” Pia grins, practically launching herself over the bar to pull you into a quick hug. “It’s been forever!”
“Oh, I know,” you sigh, grateful for the warmth of her presence. “Work’s been eating up my life. I haven’t had time for anything.”
“Tell me about it,” Pia groans, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “I’ve covered four extra shifts this week. Four! I basically live here.”
“That’s rough.”
“I wouldn’t mind if the pay was half-decent,” she grumbles, before quickly turning to serve an impatient trooper waving a handful of credits. She hands him his drink with a pointed look before spinning back to you. “Anyway, let’s get you a drink.”
As she sets a fruity, colorful concoction in front of you, you instinctively reach for your credits, but Pia swats your hand away with the tiny umbrella meant for your drink.
“Absolutely not.” She tuts, popping the umbrella in your glass for extra flourish.
You arch a brow. “You sure?”
“Of course.” She’s already dashing off to serve someone else before you can protest, so you just shake your head with a laugh.
“Don’t expect a tip, then,” you joke.
“Wouldn’t expect one from you anyway!” Pia calls over her shoulder, grinning.
You take a sip, humming in satisfaction. Perfect, as always. As the straw hangs lazily from your lips, you scan the bar, looking for any more familiar faces—though, ironically, in a room full of clones, everyone looks familiar.
Then you spot him.
Across the bar, a clone sits alone, elbow propped up as he rests his head in his hand. He looks… tired. Maybe bored. Maybe just hoping no one will bother him. But there’s something about him that catches your attention.
Salt-and-pepper curls frame his face, the dim light emphasising the lines along his forehead. He wears his blacks, leaving his battalion unclear. But you can’t shake the feeling that you should know who he is.
Before you can think too hard about it, Pia appears in your line of sight, snapping you back to reality.
“So, how is it?” she asks, wiggling her brows.
You blink. “How’s what?”
“The drink, duh .”
“Oh.” You flush slightly, realising you’d been too busy staring at the mystery trooper. “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”
Pia beams at the praise before suddenly flipping off a customer who’s been aggressively clicking his fingers for service. “ I said I’ll be with you in a minute!” she snaps, before turning back to you. “So, who’s your company tonight?”
“The Corrie Guards, of course.”
Pia gives you a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Well, do me a favor and make sure Thire stays off the tables this time.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “Already warned him.”
As Pia busies herself with another round of orders, your gaze naturally drifts back to the clone across the bar. For a split second, you swear he meets your eyes, but Pia keeps unintentionally blocking your view.
“Hey! When am I gonna get my drink?” the same customer whines, earning a spectacular eye-roll from Pia.
“When I’m done talking to my friend .” She smiles sweetly, almost menacingly.
“You’re not even serving her anymore! You’re just chatting!”
Pia glares at him. He promptly shrinks back in his seat.
You take another sip of your drink before nodding toward the lone clone. “Say, do you know who that is?”
Pia grins knowingly. “Obviously. That’s—”
“Listen, lady, I just wanna get a drink and—”
“Kriff, fine ! Fine! ” Pia throws her hands up, stomping over to the persistent patron.
You sigh as she gets pulled away, your curiosity about the mystery trooper left frustratingly unanswered.
You try not to keep stealing glances at him, but there’s just something about him. It’s distracting.
Maybe it’s the salt-and-pepper streaking through his curls, maybe it’s the way his shoulders hunch, like he’s carrying the weight of an entire day on them. He’s got that whole brooding, don’t-talk-to-me aura, which—ironically—only makes you more curious.
And, apparently, more reckless.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a napkin from the dispenser and fish a pen out of your purse. You hesitate, pen hovering over the flimsy paper. What do you even write? Something casual? Flirty? Mysterious?
You roll your eyes at yourself—definitely overthinking it. Finally, you scribble down:
You look lonely. I can fix that.
As soon as you read it back, you cringe. Too forward? Too suggestive? Maybe you should—
Nope. No time for second-guessing. You fold the napkin before you can change your mind. Pia is still swamped, barely keeping up with the sea of 212th troopers ordering drinks, but thankfully, a server droid hums by.
Perfect.
“Hey,” you beckon it over, glancing toward the clone across the bar. “Can you take this to him?”
The droid gives a curt beep. “That is not my function.”
“Oh, come on,” you groan. “It’ll take two seconds.”
“Then do it yourself.”
You narrow your eyes. “I’ll tell Pia you need rewiring.”
The droid snatches the napkin without another word, wheeling off toward the clone.
Your stomach knots as you watch it place the note in front of him, then—completely unhelpfully—point directly at you. Great. You quickly avert your eyes, suddenly regretting everything.
But you still sneak a glance from the corner of your eye.
The clone straightens slightly, unfolds the napkin. Reads it. Pauses. Then, without a flicker of reaction, folds it back up and finishes his drink.
And then… he stands.
Your stomach drops. Oh. That’s it, then. He doesn’t even look your way as he walks off, disappearing into the crowd.
You exhale, a mix of relief and secondhand embarrassment washing over you. You swirl the ice in your glass and mutter to yourself, “Well. Won’t be doing that again.”
A voice speaks up behind you.
“It worked, didn’t it?”
You turn on your stool, and—oh.
The clone from across the bar is now standing right in front of you. Tall. Broad. Close.
Heat creeps up your neck. Your mouth suddenly dry.
“…Yeah,” you manage, a little breathless. “Kind of surprised, actually.”
“How come?” He gestures to the empty stool beside you, waiting for your nod before he sits.
“You looked like a man who didn’t want to be bothered.” You take a sip of your drink, hoping it steadies you.
“And yet, you were bold enough to send a note,” he muses, lips curving just slightly. “Very sweet.”
You giggle, shrugging as you set your glass down with a soft clink. “You don’t know if you don’t try.”
His amusement lingers. “Looks like it paid off.” He chuckles, then tilts his head. “Can I get you another drink?”
“I’d like that, thank you.”
He signals for another round, ordering one for himself, too.
“So,” you begin, tilting your head, “I haven’t seen you around before. What battalion are you with?”
The clone pauses just a fraction too long before answering, “Coruscant Guard.”
Your brows lift. “Oh? Me too! I feel like I would’ve noticed you… what’s your name?”
Another brief hesitation. Then: “Whisky.”
You arch a brow. “Whisky?”
“That’s right.” He nods, taking a deeper sip of his drink. There’s a flicker of nerves in his expression, but you don’t press. “Big whisky fan.”
You chuckle. “Fair enough. Cool name.”
“And yours?”
You offer your name along with your hand, flashing a bright, playful grin.
For a moment, he just looks at you. Then, he places his hand in yours. His palm is warm, his grip firm but careful.
“Lovely name,” he murmurs.
His voice is smooth, just a little too low, and it sends a surprising shiver up your spine. There’s something about the way he holds your hand—like he’s not sure if he should, but doesn’t want to let go, either. The earlier nervousness is gone, replaced by a small, amused smirk.
And you?
You’re intrigued.
Still, you release his hand before yours can get clammy. “So, the Corrie Guard?” You lean back slightly, studying him. “I still feel like I should’ve seen you around.”
He clears his throat, taking another long sip. “I’m not exactly frontline.”
That explains it. “What department?”
“Mechanic.”
That really explains it. You nod, feeling a little sheepish. “Ah, that’s probably why. I love working with my boys in red, though. They’re good to me.”
“Good,” he says, then hesitates. “So, uh… what’s the Commander like?”
You blink. “Fox?”
He nods.
You smirk, turning away slightly as you consider your answer. A hundred words come to mind—moody, buzzkill, abrasive, miserable, exhausted…
“Grumpy,” you settle on, swirling your drink. “Big grump.”
He chuckles. “Can’t be that bad.”
“Oh, but he is.” You huff, thinking back to earlier that night. “But… he works hard, so sometimes the grumpiness is excused.”
“Sure,” Whisky nods, idly swiping at the condensation on his glass. He hesitates again. “He… does he treat you okay?”
You arch a brow, amused. “Why? You planning to put in a word for me?”
The teasing is lighthearted, but Whisky seems oddly stiff about it. You wave it off before he can dwell. “He’s okay,” you say simply. “He just gets under my skin sometimes. I don’t think he means to.” You sigh, taking another sip before turning back to him. “You know him?”
He shakes his head, then drinks. “Nah. Just heard he can be a little hard on people.”
You hum. “You got that right.”
You don’t notice the way Whisky shifts in his seat, rubbing a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping into his glass. He’s quiet, thoughtful—until you break the silence again.
“Actually,” you say, warmth from the alcohol making you bolder, “I know a secret about him.”
He raises a brow. “You do?”
You giggle and scoot closer, lowering your voice. “I’ll tell you but you have to keep it between us.” You hold up your hand, pinky extended. “And all my promises have to be pinky sweared.”
Whisky stares at you for a second, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Then, with a small smirk, he hooks his pinky around yours. “Alright. Spill.”
“So, about a year ago, I was in the office, sorting files or whatever. I came across one of his, and being the amazing worker I am, I marched right up to him at his desk and dropped it in front of him.” You start grinning, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday.
“And you know what he said?”
Whisky watches you closely, his gaze flickering to your lips as you lean in, your voice dropping secretively.
Closer, closer, closer…
“No,” he murmurs.
“Nothing.”
His brows draw together. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” you repeat, eyes alight with mischief. “Because he was snoring under his bucket.”
There’s a moment of silence followed by laughter. You tip your head back, giggling as you wipe a tear from your eye, and Whisky laughs along with you, shaking his head. It’s not even that funny, but the irony of it is too good.
“He always tells us to work harder, no time for rest,” you say, rolling your eyes. “And there he was, sleeping on the job. And it wasn’t even the first time! He sleeps upright, so it looks like he’s just watching us. But nope. Out cold.”
“So he’s a slacker?” Whisky smirks.
You shake your head. “No, not a slacker. He works hard. Really hard.”
“But you didn’t wake him?” He eyes you curiously.
“Nah. He barely gets any rest as it is, so I let him sleep.” You glance at Whisky, smirking. “Besides… it’s kinda cute.”
Whisky watches you closely, his lips twitching at your laughter, but his eyes seem to linger on you a moment longer than necessary. He swirls his drink idly, then asks, “You think he’d be mad if he knew you caught him slacking?”
You shrug, still grinning. “Maybe. But what’s he gonna do? Fire me? I know he’s my boss but those lot won’t function without me.” You laugh. “Besides, I doubt he gets much rest, so I let him sleep. Figured he needed it.”
There’s something in Whisky’s expression that shifts—just slightly. His fingers drum against his glass, his posture relaxing, but you catch a flicker of something you can’t quite place. It’s gone as soon as it appears, replaced by that same amused smirk.
“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he muses.
You roll your eyes but smile.“It’s not sentimental. Just… practical.”
“You like him,” he says. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.
You hum, tilting your head. “I admire him,” you correct, swirling your drink. “Fox works harder than anyone I know. He doesn’t just give orders—he takes the weight of everything on his shoulders. Every mission, every casualty, every prisoner, every mistake. And I don’t think anyone really sees that.”
Whisky watches you carefully, listening.
You sigh, resting your elbow on the bar. “I just wish he was… a little nicer, sometimes. He’s got a good squad. I mean, the guys look up to him. I think if he let himself relax, let himself be one of them instead of always keeping himself separate, they’d follow him even harder. But he never does.” You exhale, shaking your head. “I dunno. It’s not my business, really. Just somethin’ I think about.”
Whisky is quiet for a second, “Maybe he doesn’t know how,” he says finally.
You pause. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”
A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s softer this time. “You’re a bit of a softie, huh?”
You scoff, playfully nudging him with your elbow “Shut up.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing.” He takes a sip of his nearly empty drink, eyes flicking over you. “You care about your squad.”
“Of course I do,” you say, as if it’s obvious. “I spend all my time with them. They’re like family.”
Whisky hums, contemplative. He watches you for a moment longer before he shifts in his seat, leaning a little closer, his arm brushing against yours.
“So,” he says, voice dipping lower, more conspiratorial, “if Fox is the grumpiest, who’s your favourite?”
You huff a laugh. “Oh, come on, I can’t answer that.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I pick one, I’ll have to deal with the rest of them whining about it for the next month.” You shake your head. “I’m not walking into that trap.”
Whisky grins. “Smart.”
You take a sip of your drink, then tilt your head at him. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re in the Guard, too. You’ve gotta have a favourite.”
He hesitates for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. Then, he smirks. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”
You narrow your eyes playfully. “Liar.”
He chuckles, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he taps the side of his glass. “Alright, fine. Who gives you the most trouble?”
You groan dramatically. “Thorn . Hands down.”
Whisky raises a brow. “That bad?”
“He’s so smug,” you complain, exasperated. “He knows he can get away with murder because he’s one of Fox’s best. And he loves rubbing it in my face. I’d also argue Stone because he’s cheeky but Thorn can be devious if he wants to be.”
Whisky chuckles. “Sounds like a menace.”
“Oh, he is ,” you confirm. “But I can’t even be mad about it, because he’s also stupidly good at his job. So I just have to suffer .”
He leans in close. “Poor thing.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t patronise me.”
“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and— Maker , his eyes are intense when they settle on you like that.
Your breath catches slightly, but you mask it with another sip of your drink. The air between you has shifted—still playful, but heavier now, charged with something unspoken.
You clear your throat. “So, Whisky,” you say, changing the subject. “Tell me something about you .”
His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. “What do you wanna know?”
You tap your fingers against the bar, pretending to think. “Mmm… what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done while on duty?”
Whisky chuckles, shaking his head. “Now that’s a dangerous question.”
“Oh, come on,” you nudge him. “I won’t tell.”
He eyes you for a moment, considering. Then, he leans in slightly, voice lowering just enough to send a shiver up your spine.
“Alright,” he murmurs, “but if I tell you… you owe me another secret in return.”
You grin. “Deal.”
And just like that, the night stretches on and the hours slip away without either of you noticing.
⋅───⊱༺ 🦊 ༻⊰───⋅
It starts with secrets, little things at first. Just small confessions that wouldn’t ruin you if they got out.
You tell him about the time you ‘accidentally’ shredded a report you were supposed to file, and how you spent half the day trying to piece it back together before finally giving up and blaming it on a faulty data pad. Or how you once snuck into the supply room after hours because Thorn had been too busy to eat, and you stole rations for both of you under the pretense of ‘inventory control.’
Whisky listens with quiet amusement, the occasional smile flickering across his lips as he watches you talk. He’s not a big sharer. His own stories are vague and kind of always deflecting back to you. But when you mention your upbringing, your life before the Republic and the war, he leans in slightly, genuinely intrigued.
“You ever think about what comes after?” you ask at one point.
His brow furrows slightly. “After?”
You nod. “Yeah. Like… what happens when the war ends? What do you want to do?”
For the first time, Whisky hesitates—not the way he had before, when he seemed like he was choosing his words carefully, but like he’s genuinely never considered it.
“You don’t have to answer,” you say quickly, suddenly feeling bad for asking as he stares into his drink.
“No, it’s not that.” His voice is quiet. “I just… don’t know.”
The admission sits heavy between you, and before you can say anything else, he shifts the conversation.
“What about you?”
You exhale, leaning back against the bar. “Dunno.” You smile a little, but it’s laced with something soft and wistful. “I’d love to travel. See what’s out there, you know? Maybe settle somewhere quiet. Own a little shop or something.”
He studies you. “You’d leave Coruscant?”
You huff a small laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”
He doesn’t answer.
The music has quieted now, the heavy bass that once thrummed beneath your feet nothing more than a distant pulse. The strobe lights have stopped their restless dance, leaving the room bathed in the softer glow of overhead fixtures. It’s only then that you realise most of the patrons have left.
You turn back to Whisky, surprised to find him watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and intense.
“What?” you ask, tilting your head.
“You’re really beautiful.”
The words catch you off guard. You blink, lips parting slightly before you shake your head, laughing softly. “You don’t know me.”
“Do I have to?”
You frown slightly, not in offense but in confusion. “How can you find a person beautiful if you don’t know them?”
Whisky exhales a small laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. “I… you look beautiful,” he says, voice steady but soft. “And the way you talk about your family, about your squad… it’s nice.”
You watch him before smirking a touch. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome.” Your voice is teasing, but there’s warmth beneath it, something genuine that makes his grip on his glass tighten.
He smirks however, trying to play off your compliment. “That means you think all my brothers are handsome.”
You hum in mock consideration, swirling the last of your drink. “Maybe so…” You take a slow sip, then let your eyes meet his again. “But maybe I find you the most attractive.”
There’s a shift between you, a flicker of something deeper in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorising the moment, the words, the way you say them. His lips part slightly, a breath drawn in like he’s about to say something, but then—
“Kriff.” You sit up straighter, suddenly glancing at the time. “I’ve gotta get going! If I don’t sleep tonight, I’ll be late, and the last thing I need is to miss one of Fox’s drills.”
He reacts almost instantly, standing when you do, setting his drink down. “S-sure, no problem. Do you want me to walk you home?”
“I’m taking a cab, but thank you.”
Still, he follows you out, insists on making sure you get into one safely. Outside, the night air is crisp, cool enough to make you shiver. You wrap your arms around yourself, exhaling. “Knew I should’ve brought a jacket.”
Whisky chuckles, stepping a little closer. “I could warm you up.”
The words hang between you, charged, almost daring. You tilt your head at him, amused. “Bold offer.”
He grins. “It’s there if you want it.”
A cab hovers down in front of you, and he opens the door, but you hesitate. Looking up at him, you smile softly. “It was really nice meeting you, Whisky. I hope to see you again sometime.”
There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, but he nods. “I’m sure we will. Sooner than you think.”
You don’t quite understand what he means, but there’s a thrill in the mystery of it. He holds out his hand, and you roll your eyes playfully, swatting it away. “I’m not shaking your hand goodbye.”
Before he can ask what you mean, you step closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. You linger for just a second, enough to feel the way he tenses, the way he barely exhales.
When you pull back, you smirk. “Goodnight, handsome.”
He inhales sharply, watching as you step into the cab. His voice is quiet, soft.
“Goodnight… beautiful.”
He stays there as your cab lifts off, watching until it’s out of sight. Then, with a deep breath, he turns—only to hear someone calling his name.
His real name.
“Fox? Fox! We didn’t know you came out tonight! Where have you been?”
Thire stumbles toward him, voice slurred, movements a little too loose. Fox rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I’ve been busy.”
Thire squints at him, blinking blearily. “Busy, huh?” He lets out a slow, knowing grin. “Didn’t take you for the social type, Commander .”
Fox huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”
His brother wobbles slightly, throwing an arm around Fox’s shoulders. “Right. So where were you?”
Fox debates answering honestly for all of two seconds before shaking his head. “None of your business.”
Thire gasps dramatically, pointing at him. “ Oh. So it’s like that ? You sneak off, disappear for hours, come back looking all—” he waves his hand at him vaguely, “— not miserable… You met someone, didn’t you?”
Fox sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go back to the barracks, Thire.”
But his brother is relentless. “ You did! ” He stumbles back a step, laughing. “Oh, I gotta know. Who is it?”
Fox shakes his head, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Go. Now.”
Thire groans, rubbing his face. “Fine, fine. But I swear , if I see you all giddy at work tomorrow, I will find out.”
Fox rolls his eyes. “Go sleep it off.”
As he stumbles away, still muttering about Fox meeting someone , the Commander exhales slowly. He turns back toward the sky where your cab had disappeared, rubbing his jaw where your lips had touched his skin.
He should feel guilty. He should feel stupid for going along with it, for making up a name, for listening to you talk about him without you even knowing.
But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway.
Instead, he just wonders what he’ll do when he sees you again.
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