Chapter Text
The hum of the hangar bay was a far cry from the chaos it had known two days ago. The 556th was finally at ease. Armor unfastened, helmets off, laughter echoing off the durasteel walls.
For the first time in months, the war didn’t sound like war.
Nova Phoenix stood at the mirror panel built into the bulkhead beside her quarters, running her fingers through the copper-bright length of her hair. The strands caught in the ship’s artificial light—too vivid, too alive for someone who’d seen as many sieges as she had. She’d woven the center braid tightly and pinned it with gold clasps, each one engraved with a tiny name: Goose. Keegs. Lyon. Crackow. Splinter.
The braid had become tradition among the 556th—her way of carrying them with her when the helmets came off.
“General!” a voice called from the corridor.
Nova smirked without turning. “You can come in, Splinter.”
A clone trooper—still half in armor, helmet tucked under one arm—stepped into the doorway. “Just wanted to confirm your transport time planetside. The men have the fires built, ma’am. We’re finally gonna breathe air that doesn’t smell like coolant.”
“That’s the plan.” She twisted the braid’s end, securing it with a simple ring clasp. “Tell them I’ll join them in twenty. Maybe thirty.”
He grinned. “Copy that. Drinks are chillin’, General.”
When he left, Nova leaned closer to the mirror, checking the set of her mauve robes. The color was softer than regulation red, almost elegant—closer to what she’d worn back on Coruscant before everything turned into armor and tactics. Beneath the robes, her fitted undersuit was black and seamless, cinched by a broad belt with her saber clipped to the side. Beskar braces—shoulder, arm, leg—caught faint glimmers of light when she moved.
She looked like someone about to step into a Senate reception, not a campfire.
And that was the point.
Holocams would be everywhere once they landed—local media, Republic correspondents, and the HoloNet always eager for a glimpse of “the Living Flame of the Outer Rim.” If there was one thing she could control in the chaos of the war, it was this: the image her men saw when they looked at her. A general who hadn’t let the galaxy’s ugliness steal her grace.
She was halfway to tightening the clasp at her shoulder when the comm light on her desk blinked.
“Incoming transmission: Captain Rex.”
Her good mood dimmed a little. “Of course it’s Rex.”
She keyed the comm open. “Captain. Please tell me you’re not recalling us already. I promised my men they’d have one night without blaster fire or orders.”
Rex’s voice crackled through, clipped but apologetic. “Sorry, General. I wouldn’t ask unless it was serious. We’ve got a critical Jedi casualty aboard the Resolute. General Secura requested reinforcement for Force-based stabilization.”
Nova leaned against the console, head falling back with a groan. “Force healing? You know that’s not exactly my… specialty.”
“You’re the best we’ve got within a system’s reach.”
Nova stared at the soft gleam of her reflection in the viewport—a soldier ready for a celebration she wouldn’t get to attend.
“Fine,” she said at last, exhaling. “Send me the coordinates.”
“Thank you, General. Rex out.”
The comm clicked off.
Nova stood there a moment longer, the silence pressing in. She could hear laughter faintly from the mess down the hall, the sound of her brothers—her men—already celebrating without her.
“I should be drinking,” she muttered. “Not patching up some reckless Jedi who can’t stay in one piece.”
Still, she moved.
Within minutes, she was on the bridge, boots clicking against the deck. Her second-in-command, Commander Goose, met her halfway. “Sir, Captain Rex transmitted the coordinates. Medical bay’s expecting you.”
She nodded once, pulling her gloves tight. “Set course. Let’s not keep our mystery patient waiting.”
The Aureate Dawn cut through the atmosphere like a shard of light, engines cooling as it slipped into the Resolute’s docking cradle. When the ramp lowered, the familiar hum of the 501st greeted her—the blue armor, the ever-present hum of engines, the scent of ozone and polish.
Ahsoka Tano was there, standing beside Aayla Secura and Captain Rex.
Nova descended the ramp, her mauve robes fluttering around her knees, the black belt tight against her waist. The beskar braces gleamed with muted light as her boots hit the deck. Her braid hung down her back, bound in intricate loops that shimmered when she walked.
Ahsoka’s eyes widened. “General Phoenix—wow. You look… nice. Not what I expected for a medbay run.”
“Neither did I,” Nova said dryly, smiling just enough to take the sting out. “My boys and I were supposed to be on the surface, having a jolly old time and getting washed over Mygeetoan liquor. Got dragged into a rescue instead.”
Aayla stepped forward, her voice warm but weary. “I wouldn’t have called if it weren’t important. The patient’s stable but needs reinforcement through the Force. He’s… unique.”
Rex cleared his throat. “Skywalker, ma’am.”
Nova blinked. “Anakin Skywalker?”
"Who else?" Ahsoka nodded. “Took a hit on Felucia. He’s fine now, mostly—just stubborn.”
“Typical,” Nova muttered. “All right. Lead the way.”
They walked through the sterile corridors toward the medbay. As they moved, Nova caught their sidelong glances. She wasn’t blind to it—the way Ahsoka’s brow furrowed slightly at the sight of her ornate braid, the soft color of her robes, the almost ceremonial precision of her appearance.
Rex, usually unreadable, looked faintly startled too.
“I was planning to celebrate our liberation,” Nova explained before anyone asked. “Didn’t want to look like a walking bruise for the holocams.”
Ahsoka smirked. “You’re setting the bar pretty high for battlefield fashion.”
Nova shot her a teasing look. “Maybe if you brushed your montrals once in a while, Commander.”
Rex stifled a laugh; Aayla’s lips quirked upward. The tension broke just enough.
By the time they reached the medbay doors, Nova’s amusement had faded. The hum of bacta tanks filled the hall beyond, undercut by the slow rhythm of heart monitors. Her fingers brushed the clasp of her belt, grounding herself. She’d faced worse. But something about this request—a nameless Jedi, Force healing, a “critical case”—made her uneasy.
The droid at the door swiveled toward her.
“General Phoenix. Patient’s recovery is progressing, but Commander Secura requested additional Force-based assistance.”
Nova straightened her shoulders, smoothing the fall of her robes. “Understood.”
She took a breath, let her focus narrow to the Force, and pushed the door open.
Then she saw him.
Anakin Skywalker—half-upright against a cot, bandaged and blinking, looking every bit the galaxy’s most impossible man.
Her breath caught, half laughter, half disbelief.
“Of course it’s you,” she murmured.
The hum of the medbay was almost gentle compared to the war outside.
Republic cruisers didn’t often feel quiet, but this one did — metal corridors washed in pale blue light, the steady pulse of life-support monitors echoing down the hall like a mechanical heartbeat.
Nova walked through the sterile haze with her gloves tucked into her belt. The dark shine of her armor looked almost black under the lights, the once-bright paint scuffed by months of siege worlds.
When she stepped through the medbay doors, the smell of bacta hit her first. Then she saw him.
Anakin Skywalker.
He lay half-upright against the cot’s angled rest, one arm strapped into a healing frame, chest half-wrapped in synthflesh, hair falling into his eyes like the galaxy’s most stubborn padawan who refused to grow up.
The monitor above him chirped in rhythm with his pulse. Alive. Barely rattled. Typical.
Figures, Nova thought. The war’s golden boy can’t stay out of the medbay for longer than a campaign as she drew the curtain aside.
Anakin’s eyelids fluttered, blue beneath the lashes. Then he squinted against the light. “You again?”
She tilted her head. “Me again?”
His brow furrowed. “Sorry—have we met?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You used to steal my seat in meditation halls, Skywalker.”
His face lit up with stunned recognition. “No kriffing way. Nova Phoenix?”
She grinned. “Still terrible with manners, I see.”
He tried to sit straighter and hissed in pain. “Don’t move,” she ordered, already pressing her hand lightly to his sternum. Warmth pulsed out through the Force, smooth and even.
Anakin stared at her hand, then at her face. “You heal now? What happened to wanting to throw people through walls with telekinesis?”
She smirked. “Turns out walls don’t pay attention to anatomy. Yoda had other ideas.”
He snorted, eyes glinting. “Yoda always liked you more. Probably because you didn’t complain every time he made us do inverted breathing drills.”
“Or because he trained me personally...but yes, I complained plenty. You just never heard me over your own whining.”
He barked a laugh that turned into a wince. “Still sharp-tongued.”
The Force rippled quietly between them while she worked. Her hands hovered inches above the cauterized wound along his ribs. Pale golden light gathered under her fingers, soft as dust motes. The wound knit itself beneath the surface, muscle fibers pulling back together in rhythm with her breath.
Anakin watched her, his usual battlefield intensity dulled to something gentler. The Nova he remembered had always been restless — a wildfire in the Temple courtyards, quick to argue, quicker to spar. But this version… she was still fire, just focused. Tempered.
'She’s stronger than before', he thought. 'Different. But that’s what war does — it distills you.'
She caught him staring.
“What?”
He blinked. “Nothing. Just didn’t think you’d ever wear armor. Last time I saw you, your hands were covered in dirt and you still struggled to breathe in the Temple.”
She chuckled under her breath. “Coruscanti air is rotten. But Yoda made me train in it until I learned to breathe through it, he said I’d need that for planets worse than the Core, and he was not wrong.”
“Does it help?”
“It lets me breathe longer than you when everything goes up in smoke.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A boast?”
“A fact.”
“Careful, General. The 501st doesn’t take kindly to arrogance.”
“Oh, please. You’ve built a career on arrogance."
The droid excused itself quietly. The room seemed smaller without its noise.
Nova flexed her fingers and lowered them again to smooth the final seam of healing across his side. When she pulled back, her gloves brushed his tunic hem and he caught the scent of field oil and ozone. His heart skipped before his brain could talk him out of it.
She smirked to hide the moment. “Glad to see you ditched the Temple braid. It always looked—well—”
“Like what?”
“Like you’d lost a bet with a hairstylist.”
He shot her a look, but Nova wasn't done. “Your hair looks like you fell asleep under a jet turbine.”
“Battle damage,” he said, deadpan.
She snorted. “Sure. Blame the droids.”
Anakin watched her mouth curve, felt something traitorous spark in his chest. He remembered long days at the Temple — sparring circles, her laugh when he’d missed a parry, her mock-bows. He’d never thought of her much since the war began; there was too much blood, too many reports, too many secrets.
But seeing her now — alive, steady, teasing him — it was like something in the Force was reminding him what normal had once felt like.
Nova caught his expression soften, and for a fleeting second her own pulse stumbled, the memory of their last encounter before she left the Temple and joined the fight lingered in her bones, unable to be shaken even by the fiercest winds.
'Still the same Skywalker,' she thought. 'Still too bright for his own good.'
She broke eye contact, re-strapping her gloves. “You’ll live. Probably even walk without whining in a few hours.”
He grinned. “I don’t whine.”
“You absolutely whine.”
He pushed himself gingerly upright. “You always talk this much to your patients?”
“Only the ones who can’t run away." she grinned, showing off her pointed canines, pearly white, as the door hissed open.
Ahsoka peeked in. “Master? We’re almost ready to jump to Ryloth.”
Anakin straightened automatically, then looked back to Nova. “Well, I guess duty calls.”
Nova gave a short nod, eyes bright but unreadable as she stepped back with her hands behind her back, turning towards the door. “Go. Try not to get impaled again. I have other priorities, can't be saving your ass all the time.”
He paused halfway to the door. “You sure you’re not just saying that because you don’t want to admit you cared?”
She arched a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Skywalker. You’re just a patient with better hair than most.”
He smirked. “That’s not saying much.”
“Exactly.”
As he left, the Force between them hummed with a familiar ache — not quite friendship, not quite rivalry. Something more dangerous. Something neither of them had the sense to name yet.
When the door closed and the silence returned, Nova exhaled, resting her palms on the cold edge of the cot.
“Still trouble,” she whispered.
The ship’s engines shifted tone as it jumped to hyperspace, pulling both Jedi toward different battles — but the current that sparked between them in that sterile blue light wouldn’t stop echoing for a long, long time.
The Temple slept.
The corridors that had been bright with celebration hours ago were now silent, wrapped in the soft hum of the city below. Coruscant’s lights reflected faintly off the marble floors, fractured into pale ripples by the garden’s still ponds.
Nova couldn’t sleep.
Her room felt too warm, her mind too loud. Every time she closed her eyes, the ceremony replayed—Yoda’s words, the flash of the saber, the weight of the braid leaving her head. Pride and loss twined together like smoke and wind.
So she slipped out.
A long woolen robe hung loosely around her frame, the hem brushing her slippers. Her hair fell free for the first time in years—silky, smooth, and faintly perfumed with the citrus-and-spice conditioner Shaak Ti had worked into it earlier. The air brushed through it as she crossed the courtyard, the faint chill of midnight calming the ache in her chest.
She reached the willow.
The ancient tree loomed gently under the night’s blue light, its long tendrils whispering in the wind. The same willow where she had trained, meditated, fallen, grown. The roots curved upward like open hands.
Nova sank to her knees in the grass. In one hand, she held her braid—the symbol of everything she’d been. The fine strands gleamed under the moonlight, the tip fused together by the burn of Yoda’s saber.
She dug a shallow hollow between the roots, the damp soil soft and cool beneath her fingers. The smell of it—earth and rain—filled her lungs.
She was just about to place the braid inside when she heard it—
footsteps.
Quiet, measured, but heavy enough to disturb the grass.
Nova’s head turned. “You can come out, Anakin.”
A shape emerged from the shadows of the garden’s archway—tall, cloaked, and unmistakable. His presence in the Force brushed against her mind like heat before a storm.
Anakin stopped a few feet away, looking both uncertain and agitated. The moonlight caught the edge of his profile, outlining the tension in his jaw.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked softly. Her tone was careful, not sharp. Always the one to ask first.
He shook his head. “No. I—” He hesitated. “I was walking.”
“Walking.” Nova arched a brow. “You look more like you’re pacing the galaxy.”
He huffed a laugh, short and humorless. His eyes flicked to the small braid in her hand, then to the disturbed patch of soil beside her knees. “You’re really going to bury it?”
She nodded faintly. “Seems right. I don’t have anyone to give it to.”
Anakin’s expression darkened. He took a step closer, boots brushing through the grass. “You’re not supposed to just—throw it away.”
“I’m not throwing it away,” she said evenly. “I’m returning it. The roots here are strong. They’ll keep it safe.”
He stopped just in front of her now, gaze locked on the braid. His voice dropped low. “You really want to bury it?”
Nova looked up at him, confused. “Why does it matter to you?”
Anakin’s jaw clenched. “Because—” He exhaled sharply. “Because you have everything I want. You’re a Knight. You got all the praise, all the attention. You’re—” His words faltered. “You’re everything they want us to be.”
Nova blinked, her expression softening. “Anakin.”
“I’m not jealous,” he lied, too fast.
Her brow furrowed. “You are. And that’s fine.”
His eyes lifted to hers—bright, restless blue, searching for something. “How are you not? You act like you don’t even care.”
“I do care,” she said quietly. “I just earned it. The same way you will—when you stop trying to be seen, and start trying to be.”
He looked away, his breath uneven. “You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t,” Nova said. “But it’s honest.”
He looked down again—at her hands. One held the braid. The other was still streaked with dirt from digging. Without asking, he reached out and took them both.
Nova’s breath caught as his fingers closed gently around hers.
“Don’t bury it,” he said softly.
“Then what should I do with it?”
“Give it to me.”
Before she could react, he slipped the braid from her grasp, holding it between them. Then, with his other hand, he lifted her dirt-streaked fingers to his own Padawan braid. The gesture was intimate, deliberate, the touch grounding.
“When I cut this,” he murmured, his voice rough, “you’ll have it. Promise.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Why would I want it?”
He smiled faintly—sad, crooked. “Because you’ll understand what it means.”
The night breeze caught her hair, sending a few loose strands across her face. Anakin brushed them aside almost absently. “There’s something about you, Nova,” he said quietly. “Something I can’t stop thinking about.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. “Anakin…”
But before she could finish, his hand slipped up—curling gently around the back of her neck, thumb brushing the soft line beneath her jaw. The contact sent a jolt through her entire body.
He tilted her chin upward, and for a heartbeat, she saw it—his eyes burning, blue like plasma, like promise.
“What do you want?” he asked, his voice barely more than breath.
Nova’s mind blurred. The world around them—willow, wind, night—seemed to fade until only the space between them existed.
She could smell the rain on him, the faint trace of engine oil and soap. Her lips parted, her breath trembling.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Yes, you do.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. And for one impossible moment—she gave in.
She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his, feather-light, a single breath of contact that carried all the confusion and forbidden heat that had been building between them for years.
Anakin froze—eyes closed, hand still at her neck, holding her there like he might shatter if she moved.
Then she did.
The Force surged through her—pure instinct. The air rippled. And in the space of a blink—she was gone.
In her chamber, Nova reappeared in a rush of displaced air, the robe fluttering around her like smoke. She stumbled back against the door, slamming it shut with a burst of the Force that rattled the hinges.
Her hands went straight to her chest.
Her heart was hammering, wild and painful. Her skin still burned where his fingers had touched.
“Force—” she whispered, pressing her forehead to the door.
Her breath came in sharp bursts. She could still feel him in the Force—his confusion, his hunger, his guilt.
Nova squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady her breathing. But instead of calm, what rose in her was a scream—silent but fierce, a cry of frustration and fear and something dangerously close to longing.
She slid down the door, curling her knees to her chest, her robe pooling around her. Her braid was still gone, her heart still aching, her soul still burning.
Nova woke to the smell of cheap liquor and recycled air.
For a second, she thought she was still under the willow—the same hush, the same weight pressing against her ribs—but then a snore rattled beside her and she realized she was very much on the floor of the 556th command barracks.
Her head throbbed like a starfighter engine misfiring.
The ceiling above was a blur of pipes and durasteel.
Her braid—what was left of it—was plastered to her cheek.
She tried to sit up and immediately discovered that movement was a group effort: her foot was lodged squarely against Lyon’s chest plate, one arm had gone numb beneath Goose’s shoulder, and a long strand of her hair had somehow found its way into Keegs’ mouth.
“Keegs,” she croaked.
He stirred, eyes half-open. “Ma’am?”
“Spit. It. Out.”
He blinked, confused, then made a face and pulled the copper strand from his lips. “Oh—uh—sorry, General.”
“Don’t call me General until I’ve had water,” she muttered, dragging herself upright. Her head swam, balance teetering like a damaged gyroscope. The room was a battlefield of empty bottles, upended armor, and passed-out soldiers.
Crackow was using a crate as a pillow. Someone—probably Splinter—had drawn a smiley face on his forehead.
Nova pressed her palms to her eyes. The dream still pulsed behind them: the cool soil, the whisper of willow leaves, the heat of a hand at her neck. She could still feel it if she let herself—No. Not today.
“Everyone up,” she rasped. “We’ve got a hangover to maintain.”
Groans rippled through the pile of bodies.
“Aw, come on, sir—five more minutes,” Lyon mumbled.
“You’ve had five hours,” Nova said, forcing herself to her feet. “We need to—”
The comm on her wrist crackled.
“General Phoenix, this is Republic Command. Immediate redeploy order. Coordinates transmitting now. Engagement zone hot.”
Nova closed her eyes, exhaling through her teeth. “Of course it’s hot.”
“Repeat confirmation, General?”
She thumbed the comm. “Phoenix here. Confirm receipt. We’re en route.”
When she looked up, the entire squad was staring at her, bleary-eyed, armor half-buckled, expressions caught somewhere between horror and resignation.
“Pack it up,” she said. “We’ve got another party to crash.”
A collective groan rolled through the barracks, followed by the clatter of boots and the unmistakable sound of someone retching into a helmet.
“Keegs, hydrate. Goose, find my gauntlets. Lyon—if you’re going to puke, do it before we board the transport.”
“Yes, ma’am,” they mumbled in ragged chorus.
Nova grabbed her utility belt from the nearest cot, slinging it around her waist. Her reflection in a dented locker caught her eye—hair wild, eyes still bright despite the exhaustion, the faintest trace of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
For a moment, she saw herself under the willow again, his promise heavy in her hand.
When I cut this, you’ll have it.
You’ll understand what it means.
She blinked, and the image was gone.
“Let’s move,” she said.
The 556th rallied—hungover, armor askew, still laughing between curses—and marched toward the hangar bay. Nova followed last, the echo of the dream fading beneath the sound of boots on metal.
By the time the Aureate Dawn lifted off, the ache in her head had dulled, replaced by something quieter, steadier.
Fight. Survive. Kick ass.