Chapter Text
Commander Wolffe didn’t hate the Jedi, per sae. But after losing an eye to Asajj Ventress, he wasn’t sure that he was particularly fond of them either. There was a tiny sliver that went deeper than her lightsaber had gone in; it dug through the eyeball cavities of his skull, shredded through the slug-like matter of his brain and buried itself like a parasite in his thoughts. Every time he heard the high-powered whir of a saber clanging on another, or the visceral light as the laser unsheathed, he cringed inside, the parasite digging deeper, birthing more.
Deep down, Wolffe thought, he’d rather be dead than a cripple serving someone else’s war.
If it was anyone other than Plo Koon, he might even have deserted or quit. Either the hard way, by getting his face so disfigured no one would recognize him and escaping to the Outer Rim, or the time-tested easier way, accompanied by a flask of cheap Gungan moonshine and a single shot from his blaster. Or maybe he’d just do it the way so many of his brothers did it; with reckless abandon, throwing themselves into battle so carelessly it should well have been considered suicide.
In the interim, he had a peaty whiskey, a loud, anonymous bar where he could drink on the Senate’s tab and a night off: above all, a night alone. It was these little moments that he lived for, now.
\
Ahsoka was just happy to be allowed at the bar, let alone while the clone’s were drinking . That being said, Anakin kept a firm handle on the night and nothing was going to get too crazy, but still. She was allowed in a bar . Every other teenager in the galaxy had probably done this a million times over by now and although she loved being a Jedi, she loved fighting the good war, and she loved kicking clanker’s shiny asses, it felt good to be normal.
“Hey,” Fives nudged her, leaning in conspiratorially. “Look who it is!”
They were sitting on the second floor of the bar, the dining area, that overlooked the first floor. Ahsoka saw what Fives had been gesturing towards; Commander Wolffe, all alone at the bar.
“That’s sad,” she commented sincerely. “Don’t his men want to spend time with him?”
Some of the other clones were listening now and they laughed uproariously that this remark. “Wolffe? Are you kidding? He probably gave everyone the slip, fast as he could.”
Anakin, sitting at the other end of the table and half-way through his dinner, was listening now. He frowned. “Is he all right?”
The clones immediately righted themselves, adopting a more respectful tone, and Rex replied, “Oh yeah, that’s just Wolffe being Wolffe, General. Always been a bit of a loner, see. It’s just his way.”
“Sounds ... lonely,” Ahsoka said lamely, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. Give her a battlefield and she could seize it without thinking; navigating dinner time gossip ... a whole different story.
“Don’t worry about it, Ahsoka,” Anakin reassured, returning to cutting into his meal. Not looking up, he continued, “I love spending time with you guys but every leader just needs some time alone to decompress. It’s tough being on all the time for your men.”
“Excellent point, General,” Fives nodded sagely. With a wicked grin flashed her direction though, he added, “Commander Tano should go over and talk to him, maybe. Leader to leader, decompressing, sharing knowledge.”
Ahsoka gaped while Anakin thought about this for a moment, and commended, “That might be a great idea. Go on, Ahsoka. If you’re worried about him, you should get down there and have a conversation with him.” He smiled too, a bit too mischievously for Ahsoka’s liking, and repeated: “Leader to leader. It’ll be good for you.”
Annoyed at this humiliation, Ahsoka thrust herself off her chair and began the trip down to the bar. Feeling the clone’s and Anakin’s eyes on her back as she moved down the staircase, she tried to focus on calm. On ... peace, and compassion. Wolffe needed compassion right now, and that more important than being rattled around by her men.
She approached Wolffe, sliding onto a bar stool beside him. He only grunted her name in acknowledgement, taking a defiant sip of his drink.
“Wolffe,” she greeted in turn. Silence. Long, thin silence, awkward between them. “So ...” Ahsoka ventured, drumming a hand on the bar. “What’s going on? How ... are you?” She drummed harder, her anxiety forming the rhythm of this tune deaf conversation.
His hand shot out to grab hers. “Stop that,” he commanded. “I’m here for a fucking drink, not a conversation. Do you want a beer or not?” His hands were calloused on her slender fingers and Ahsoka jerked from his grasp.
Ahsoka, startled, stammered, “Oh! Well, I can’t really ... I mean ...” Wolffe gazed at her coldly with his one good eye, making Ahsoka flush. Following the traditions of the Jedi Order had never, in all her life, been a source of embarrassment for Ahsoka. Here she was now, distressed at a clone commander’s silent judgement of her.
“Why not?” he asked gruffly, not looking at her again.
Ahsoka rubbed her bare arm uncomfortably. Before she could begin, Wolffe paused in lifting his drink to his mouth and without looking at her, said, “Don’t do that either.”
Thankfully, Ahsoka was starting to feel defensive, an emotion that she had far more experience with. Casting an angry glare upstairs, where the 501st were overlooking this interaction with undoubted amusement, she snapped, “Why not?!”
Wolffe turned his head to her, face hard and unfriendly. He may have been the same age as Rex but in the dark light of the bar and with the eerie cybernetic glow from his fake eye, he look a hundred years older and more dangerous. Leering at her, he drawled, “It’s not fair that only you get to touch yourself. Might have to help myself, if you keep it up.”
Ahsoka leapt from her seat and stormed off, baffled, mortified and above all, thankful that her guys upstairs couldn’t have heard a word of that. Commander Wolffe could drink alone all night, for all she cared.
\
Many months later, Commander Wolffe found her, pretty, naive, flustered thing, sitting perched on a bar stool, hiding under a cloak like any other school girl sneaking into a bar, Wolffe felt his appetite lurch. Starting from his pelvis, shuddering out to his groin, he knew what he wanted before he even plopped down beside her. The heavy bass music throbbed in beat with his blood, loud and pressing in. Pushing past grinding patrons and drunk groups of friends, he approached her.
“Dangerous for a pretty girl to be alone here,” Wolffe breathed down her neck. Ahsoka tensed but did not start; of course not, she was a Jedi, and probably knew he’d entered the bar long before he got within this distance of her. Turning, Ahsoka pulled down her hood and opened her mouth to reply, but Wolffe hand, silencing her. “Don’t care why you’re here. I won’t rat you out.”
“I ...” She looked away and it was too dark for him to catch her expression. “Just wanted to be alone.”
“Said I didn’t care, Tano,” Wolffe repeated. “I’ll stick around, keep the bad guys away.” He gestured with his hand, the dark bar lit only by neon dance lights and blinking advertisements on the holoscreens.
“Yeah, thanks,” Ahsoka replied bitterly, resting both elbows on the bar and folding her arms.
Wolffe decided to take his chances, half because he was three beers past solitary-drinking and about two more until easy company was all he would be craving. “Of course, might require payment,” he added, leaning over to pull a bar stool out beside her. He was bold, coming close into her personal space, so he knew she could feel the heat of his skin near her.
This close, he could see she looked forlorn and ruminating. “Whatever the fuck happened,” Wolffe growled, plopping down. He looked around for a bartender before saying, “Get over it.”
“I didn’t ask for your advice.”
The wookie bartender came around. “Two beers,” Wolffe ordered.
“No, that’s fine --” Ahsoka tried to challenge, startled.
“She’s just trying to be demure. Two beers .” The bartender looked between them, confused, emitting a strange growl sound in question. “Go on, then!” Wolffe barked, and the wookie made a noise conceding defeat and leaves.
“What are you doing?” Ahsoka hissed, looking genuinely upset. “I can’t --”
“You look like you could use it.” The beers came. Picking up his drink, he said, “This about Krell? I heard what happened to Rex and his men. Not a good day to be a clone.”
Ahsoka flinched and Wolffe knew he’d hit the mark on the head. “I’m sorry,” she almost whispered.
“Not your fault,” Wolffe said.
“Rex wouldn’t even look at me -- he just ...” she looked strangled and upset. Voice throaty, she confessed, “I tried to go over and see the guys, make sure they were okay, Rex ... I’ve never seen him so angry. He told me the last thing they needed was another Jedi around.”
“Good for him,” Wolffe approved, taking another sip. He pushed the other beer closer to Ahsoka but she didn’t take it.
“Fuck off, Wolffe,” she snapped.
He grinned at this expletive. “Harsh words -- didn’t think padawans had a colourful language like that.” She scoffed. He continued, “Look, the 501st have good reason to be wary of Jedi right now. Give ‘em some space.”
She gave him a curious look from under the hood and finally said, “You’ve been there, huh?” His eyes narrowed but it was his turn not to respond. She focused on his scarred face and the artificial eye. “I’m sorry, Wolffe.”
“Stop fucking apologizing,” he growled, taking a large gulp of beer and slamming the drink back down. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It looks horrific,” she disagreed.
“Well, thanks,” he replied sarcastically.
“That’s not what --”
“You want to touch it?” he asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Go on then, see for yourself. Not so scary.” Picking up her hand, he lifted it to his face. Her warm skin on his face was soothing and strange, evoking something rebellious and primitive in him. She should not be here, in a bar, and she should definitely not be touching one of her clones so intimately. Her clone -- property, purpose, ownership. Anger infusing his unsated lust, Wolffe seized the hand of hers that was stroking his scar.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he commanded.
“I’m sorry -- “ she began to pull her hand away but Wolffe tightened his grip.
“What did I tell you about apologizing?” he reminded her. Still holding her hand, he brought it to rest on his lap and leaned back, studying her. Even under the dim lights of the bar he could see a flush steadily growing on her cheeks as he stared at her unabashedly. “My turn, now.”
“Wolffe, I should get going,” Ahsoka said noncommittally, making no motion to get up and leave. He ignored her and continued staring, very obviously moving his eyes from her face to her small but firm breasts, sliding his gaze along her lean legs, ending by focusing on her taut midriff.
“I hope you go the way of General Secura,” he muttered, raising his hand. Ahsoka watched it with anticipation and nervousness. He hovered over her body, deciding what he would do with her. “You should take fashion advice from her,” he said, looking into her eyes again. “Now that would improve morale for your boys.”
“Don’t!” she said breathily. “Don’t, don’t say that kind of stuff about them. We respect each other, it’s a professional relationship.”
“Sure,” Wolffe agreed. “They can respect you and still think about while they’re alone with their hands in their bunks.”
“You are --” She gasped.
Wolfe had decided, dropping his hand on her thigh and run his fingers along her leg, starting from her outer hip to her knee, moving back up to her hip, getting closer and closer to her inner thigh each time. She fell silent, tense at first as she stared at his hand. He fingers grew dangerously close to where she had her legs pressed together so he looked up, studied her face while he put his other hand between her knees and pried them open.
“We really shouldn’t,” Ahsoka mumbled, again, not sounding particularly convinced. “It’s not ...”
He hushed her as he pried open her knees, sitting facing each other. “Have a drink, Tano,” he urged. She did not resist as he opened her legs an inch, and taking both hands, he pressed the palms on her inner thigh near her knees and started sliding them up. Her breath caught and she jerked away. “Drink,” he insisted again. She shook her head weakly, still watching his hands.
He slid his hands under her bar stool and pulled her closer, dragging her towards him. “You’re having a bad day, I get that,” he comforted, leaning in again. “You think your boys don’t trust you anymore?”
She nodded, vulnerable and shaken, and, Wolffe was willing to bet, extremely wet. She shifted uncomfortably, undoubtedly unfamiliar with the lust and inflamed sensations flowering between her legs. Just thinking about that, the shy way she would part her legs for him, the hesitant, trusting way she would let him sink his cock into her ... Wolffe felt the familiar lurch in his stomach again and the pressure of his hardening.
“Let’s make that go away,” he persuaded, bringing his hands to cup her face. Running his hands down her lekkus, he whispered, “Let’s get out of here, me and you. I still trust you, Tano. You trust me?” She closed her eyes at the sensations he was eliciting on her head, fists clenched.
Pulling back, she opened her eyes and they shone with something reckless and innocent. Leaning over to the bar, she finally picked up the beer and took a large swig. She suppressed a gag but her twisted expression revealed her inexperience and displeasure at the flavour. Commander Wolffe smirked a bit and pulled the glass away from her, putting it back on the bar.
He grabbed her hand and led them both away from the bar. He couldn't see her face, and he was no Force-wielder that could detect her emotions, but she did not protest and that was good enough for him.