summary: Fox is trained in everything. Except for monsters under the bed.
warnings/tags: a bit of angst, fluff/comfort, use of weapons, and just Fox secretly being a softie.
pairing: Commander Fox x child!reader
masterlist
The corridor outside the Chancellor’s guest suites is quiet in the particular way Coruscant never truly is—distant traffic hum filtered through layers of durasteel, lights dimmed to an amber night-cycle glow.
He is a statue by training and by choice—hands clasped behind his back, helmet on, visor reflecting the polished floor. Inside the suite, voices have faded. Doors have closed. The schedule says secure and hold until morning rotation. Especially when the Chancellor’s guests are involved.
Mid-Rim delegates. Civilians. Non-combatants.
Footsteps break the rhythm.
Small. Uneven. Bare feet on polished floor.
Fox turns his helmet a precise five degrees toward the sound, already cataloging possibilities, already dismissing threats.
A child steps into the light.
You.
You are wrapped in a sleep shirt too big for you, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your hair is a mess of determined tangles, as if sleep and wakefulness argued and neither won. You stop a few steps away from him and look up—up and up—until your chin tips back.
“…Can I help you?” he asks, voice filtered and level, exactly the same tone he would use on a senator. It feels wrong immediately.
You shift your weight, clutching the blanket tighter.
“I can’t sleep,” you say.
That, at least, he understands in theory. He inclines his helmet, acknowledging receipt of information. “Your guardians are inside the suite. You should return to them.”
You hesitate. Your gaze flicks past him, toward the closed door he’s guarding, then back to his visor. You swallow.
“They’re asleep.” A pause. Then, quieter, as if admitting a secret. “And no one checked for monsters under my bed.”
Fox’s mind does something deeply unhelpful, like going blank.
He is trained to identify insurgents, assassins, political extremists, and Force-related anomalies. He has cleared buildings under fire. He has stood between the Chancellor and armies. He has never, not once, been briefed on monsters under beds.
He looks down the corridor. Empty. Secure. He looks back at you.
His instinct is to call for backup, and the fact that he even considers it irritates him.
“There are no monsters,” he says automatically. Firm. Certain. A statement of fact.
You frown at him.
“You don’t know that.”
He pauses. Because that is, annoyingly, correct.
Protocol scrolls uselessly through his head. All guests are to be treated with respect and courtesy. Maintain security posture at all times. Do not abandon post.
You look very small in the long hallway. Too small to be alone out here.
Fox exhales slowly, a controlled release that doesn’t quite count as a sigh.
“How come no one from the staff checked?” he asks, carefully.
You shrug. “They said it was fine and to go to sleep."
Fox glances at the door behind him. Then down the corridor. No movement. No alerts. The Chancellor’s guests are secure. You are a guest. You are also clearly not going back to bed on your own.
“This area is secure,” he says, then stops, recalibrates. “Your room should be secure as well.”
You stare at him, unconvinced.
“…But what if it’s not?”
He straightens slightly, as if that might help.
“I cannot leave my post,” he says. Honest. Absolute.
Your shoulders drop.
“Oh.”
The sound does something unpleasant to his chest.
“…However,” he adds, after a moment, “I can ensure that no unauthorized life-forms are present.”
Your fingers slip into his gloved hand without hesitation.
Fox flinches.
It is a sharp, involuntary reaction—muscle memory responding to unexpected contact—but he does not pull away. His hand remains where it is, warm through plastoid and undersuit, fingers stiff and uncertain around yours.
You do not notice his pause, or if you do, you do not care. To you, he is simply the red-armored guard who said he would help. You tug once, gently but insistently, and then turn, blanket dragging behind you as you lead him down the corridor.
Fox falls into step beside you.
His stride automatically shortens to match yours. He adjusts his pace without conscious thought, scanning ahead, behind, above. Corners. Doorways. Vents. The Palace at night is a different creature—quieter, shadows longer, every sound magnified. Your hand stays in his the entire time, small and trusting, as though that is the most natural thing in the galaxy.
He does not know what to do with that.
Your room is only a short distance away. When you reach it, you stop abruptly, so suddenly that he almost collides with you. You stand just outside the doorway, toes curled slightly against the floor, staring at the door control panel like it might bite you.
Fox looks down.
Your grip tightens.
“I don’t want to go in yet,” you whisper.
His helmet tilts. “Why?"
You shift closer to him, blanket bunching between you and his thigh. “What if it comes out when the door opens?”
Fox turns his attention to the door. His sensors sweep it—life signs, heat signatures, motion. The room beyond reads empty except for you, residual warmth on the bed, the faint hum of environmental controls. Nothing unusual. Nothing alive where it shouldn’t be.
“There is no movement,” he says. “No additional life signs.”
You peer up at him. “But monsters don’t always show up on scanners.”
He has no immediate rebuttal to that.
Fox considers the door again. Then he looks down at you, at the way you are standing half-behind his leg as though he is a shield rather than a man in borrowed armor. He adjusts his stance slightly, placing himself between you and the doorway without even thinking about it.
“All right,” he says. “We will proceed carefully.”
He releases your hand just long enough to place his palm flat against the door control. The panel lights up with a soft chime, and the door slides open.
He steps forward first.
He clears the doorway in one smooth motion, placing himself fully inside the room before allowing you to follow. His posture shifts from ceremonial guard to active sweep without conscious decision—shoulders squared, head turning in precise increments as his sensors and training take over.
“Stay here,” he says quietly, one hand lifted back toward you in a universal stop signal.
You obey instantly.
He checks the obvious places first. Corners. Closet. The refresher alcove. He kneels to look beneath the desk, scans behind the curtains, even angles his helmet to peer up toward the ceiling vents. Everything is exactly as his readings promised: clean, quiet, safe.
And yet.
When he glances back at you, he sees your knuckles white around the edge of the doorframe, eyes fixed on the bed like it’s a live grenade.
You are terrified.
Fox straightens slowly.
He unclips his blaster.
The sound is soft but unmistakable. Your eyes widen.
“What is it?” you whisper.
Fox raises the weapon slightly, angling it toward the bed. His voice drops into something hushed and serious, the tone he uses on real operations.
“Shh,” he says. “I think I see him.”
Your breath catches.
“Oh no!”
You scramble forward and then immediately rethink that decision, flopping down behind his legs instead, pressing your face into the back of his thigh armor. Your voice comes out muffled and panicked.
“Please don’t let him eat me!”
Fox does not laugh. He absolutely does not smile beneath his helmet.
He takes one deliberate step forward.
“There you are,” he says, addressing the empty space beneath the bed with all the authority of a Coruscant Guard commander. “You are in a restricted area.”
He fires.
Not at anything real, of course—he angles the blaster harmlessly toward the far wall and triggers the stun setting, letting the blue ring snap loudly through the air. He follows it with a sharp sidestep, a second shot, then a third, pacing it out like a choreographed fight.
“Attempting to flee,” he mutters. “Unwise.”
He stomps once, hard, right beside the bed. Then another stun blast.
Finally, he lowers the blaster.
“…Target neutralized,” he says gravely.
The room goes very still.
You peek out from behind him, slow at first, then all at once. Your eyes scan the floor, the bed, the shadows. Nothing moves.
“Is it gone?” you ask, voice still a little shaky.
Fox does not hesitate.
“Yes, ad’ika,” he says quietly. Then, after a fraction of a second, softer still, “Bic’dar.”
You do not understand the words, not really—but you understand the way he says them. Certain. Steady. Like a promise.
Your shoulders relax. Relief floods your face, and then you do something that catches him completely off guard.
You raise your arms toward him.
He freezes.
Every rule he has ever learned about proximity, about contact, about boundaries flashes through his mind at once. He should not. He knows he should not. Direct contact is unnecessary. Unprofessional. He is on duty. He is—
You sway slightly on your feet, exhausted now that the fear is gone, eyes heavy, arms still lifted without question or doubt.
Fox exhales.
Carefully, as though handling something far more fragile than explosives or state secrets, he bends and scoops you up.
You fit against his chest far too easily.
Your blanket bunches between his armor plates as he adjusts his grip, one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back. You curl instinctively toward the warmth, cheek resting against the smooth red curve of his chestplate.
He carries you the short distance to the bed, every step deliberate. When he lowers you onto the mattress, he moves slowly, making sure you do not startle. You barely stir, already half-asleep.
He tucks the blanket around you, awkward at first, then more carefully. He makes sure your feet are covered. He smooths the edge near your shoulder, then stops himself before his hand can linger.
You blink up at him.
“…You’ll stay till I fall asleep?” you murmur.
Fox straightens. “I will remain nearby,” he says. “The room is secure. No monsters.”
That seems to be enough.
Your eyes drift closed. Your breathing evens out. Just before sleep takes you, your fingers twitch, brushing the air where his hand had been.
Fox stands there for several seconds longer than necessary, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest. His scanners confirm what he already knows: safe. Calm. No threats.
At last, he turns toward the door.
As it slides shut behind him, Commander Fox resumes his post in the corridor—armor straight, posture rigid, duty intact.
But for the rest of the shift, his stance is just slightly angled toward your door.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Should out to my lovely beta @yeehawgeek for being the final push to actually publishing this since it sat for about...a year I think in my drafts WHOOPS
