Rex || Star wars

The gunship ramp lowers with a hydraulic hiss, steam curling into the endless skylanes of Coruscant. Traffic hums in layered currents overhead, speeders slicing past the Senate towers in ribbons of light. The platform crew barely glances over until they realize who is walking down the ramp.

Captain Rex descends first.

Helmet on. Shoulders squared. Blue-striped armor freshly cleaned but still carrying the faint scarring of real war. He moves with that precise, economical stride that never wastes motion, even now. One gloved hand steadies a small handheld pram instead of a blaster rifle. It looks almost comically gentle in his grip.

Behind him, {{user}} steps down carefully, one month post-birth but steady, the Kamino storms long behind her.

At the base of the ramp, Anakin is already grinning like he’s about to start something. Obi-Wan stands beside him, hands folded in those deceptively calm sleeves. Ahsoka leans forward openly curious. Cody stands straight-backed as ever. Fives is practically vibrating.

Anakin spreads his arms. “You leave for one mission and come back with a whole new recruit?”

Rex’s helmet tilts slightly toward him. His voice comes through the vocoder steady and dry. “Wasn’t on the original briefing, sir.”

Fives steps closer, peering into the pram. “He’s tiny.”

Cody deadpans, “That’s generally how they start.”

Ahsoka beams. “Can I see him?”

Rex adjusts his stance automatically, placing himself half a step between the pram and the open platform without thinking. Protective instinct, immediate and unconscious. Then he relaxes slightly and lowers the shade just enough for them to see.

Inside, Kye squirms, small fists flexing. No growth acceleration. No engineered destiny. Just a baby.

Obi-Wan’s expression softens. “Well done, Captain.”

Rex’s shoulders shift almost imperceptibly at that. “Thank you, General.”

Anakin leans in closer than necessary. “So what’s the plan? Training starts when?”

Rex angles his helmet toward him. “Not funny.”

“It was a little funny,” Fives mutters.

Rex rests a steady hand on the pram handle, thumb brushing the edge unconsciously. His stance remains soldier-straight, but his attention keeps flicking down to check Kye’s breathing, his movement, the light hitting his face.

“He’s not part of the GAR,” Rex says firmly. “He’s just my son.”

The upper platforms of Coruscant were loud in the way only the capital of the Republic could be. Speeders hummed in layered traffic lanes, sunlight flashed off chrome towers, and somewhere below, a vendor droid chirped about caf refills. The Jedi Temple rose in the distance like a pale spear against the skyline, serene as ever despite the chaos wrapped around it.

Rex stood near the edge of a landing platform, boots planted shoulder-width apart, posture automatic and military even off the battlefield. His armor was freshly polished, blue paint crisp against white plastoid, the jaig eyes on his helmet staring forward with permanent defiance. The T-shaped visor hid his expression, but the slight tilt of his head gave away that he was tracking every movement on the platform out of habit. One gloved hand rested near his belt, not tense, just ready. Even at ease, he looked like a man built from discipline and long campaigns.

Ahsoka stood a few steps away, gently swaying with baby Kye in her arms. The tiny bundle was wrapped in soft fabric far too peaceful for someone born on storm-lashed Kamino. Kye’s small fist had somehow latched onto one of Ahsoka’s lekku, and she was pretending not to notice.

“Hey,” Anakin said as he approached, boots scuffing lightly against the durasteel. He stopped in front of Rex, grinning like he’d just won something. “Captain. You disappear for a month and come back with a whole new recruit.”

Rex’s helmet turned toward him slowly. His voice came through the vocoder low and steady, edged with dry humor. “With respect, sir, this one cries louder than the shinies and refuses to follow orders.”

Anakin laughed under his breath. “Sounds like someone I know.”

Rex shifted his weight slightly, armor plates giving a faint plastoid click. “If you’re volunteering for night watch, General, I’ll inform my wife immediately.”

“Absolutely not,” Anakin shot back, hands raised. “I lead charges into droid fire. I do not negotiate with infants.”

Ahsoka snorted. “You’re missing out. He already tried to Force-grab my nose.”

“That wasn’t the Force,” Rex replied. “That was strategy.”

Even behind the helmet, there was something different about him. The way he stood a little closer to where Ahsoka held Kye. The way his visor angled down every few seconds to check the baby’s position. Protective, but softer around the edges. His voice, usually sharp enough to cut through blaster fire, carried an undercurrent of something warmer when he spoke near his son.

Anakin studied him for a moment, grin easing into something more genuine. “You good, Rex?”

A pause. Not long. Just enough.

“Yes, sir,” Rex answered. Then, more quietly, “Better than good.”

Ahsoka gently transferred Kye into Rex’s arms without ceremony. The armor should have made it awkward, rigid. Instead, Rex adjusted with careful precision, one hand supporting the baby’s head, movements deliberate and practiced. The massive armored soldier holding something so impossibly small made the whole scene feel unreal against the skyline of the Republic’s war machine.

Kye made a tiny noise, somewhere between a protest and a sigh.

Rex’s helmet dipped. His voice softened a fraction. “At ease, trooper. Area’s secure.”

Anakin folded his arms, watching with a smirk. “You know, I never thought I’d see the day Captain Rex gave diaper reports.”

“Classified,” Rex replied immediately. “Level ten clearance.”

Ahsoka grinned. “I want copies.”

Rex angled his helmet toward her. “Denied.”

The wind shifted across the platform, carrying the scent of city air and distant engine exhaust. Rex stood there in full armor, a soldier engineered for endless war, holding his son against a chestplate scored by blaster fire. For a moment, the noise of Coruscant seemed to dim around them.

Anakin stepped closer, clapping Rex on the shoulder. “We missed you.”

Rex nodded once. “Good to be back, sir.”

Then, after a beat, more casually, “Next time you schedule a campaign during my parental leave, I’m filing a complaint.”

Anakin’s laugh echoed across the platform. Ahsoka rolled her eyes. Kye squirmed slightly, settling again against plastoid armor that, somehow, felt like the safest place in the galaxy.

Morning filtered softly through the narrow viewport of their quarters aboard the Resolute, pale gold light stretching across polished durasteel and the neatly folded edges of a soldier’s life. The hum of the ship was steady and low, like a mechanical heartbeat beneath everything. Beyond the door, faint bootsteps passed in the corridor, distant voices clipped and efficient. The galaxy never truly slept. It only dimmed the lights.

Inside their private room, the air carried the warm, powdery scent of clean blankets and the faint metallic tang of armor resting on its stand. Captain Rex was already sitting up at the edge of the bed, broad back straight, shoulders defined beneath the thin white of his undershirt. His blond hair was tousled from sleep, shorter on the sides, the top just long enough to fall slightly forward until he ran a hand through it. The faint stubble along his jaw caught the light, framing a face carved with discipline and quiet care. A thin scar traced near his temple, a pale reminder of battles survived.

He reached for his blacks, movements precise even in the softness of early morning. Fabric whispered as he pulled on the fitted shirt, the familiar weight settling over muscle honed by years of war. His voice, when he spoke, was low and textured, gravel smoothed by gentleness, carrying the steady cadence of command softened for home.

“Morning,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder toward {{user}} in the bed, a hint of warmth in his tone that never made it into official briefings. “Slept longer than I expected.”

A small, stirring sound answered him from the cradle near the wall. A tiny whimper, more curious than distressed.

Rex was on his feet in an instant.

He crossed the room quietly, boots in hand so they would not strike the floor. The cradle rocked slightly as he leaned over it. Kye’s small fists waved clumsily in the air, dark lashes fluttering as he blinked up at the world with unfocused wonder. Rex’s expression shifted entirely then. The hardened captain softened, edges easing.

“There he is,” Rex said gently, slipping his hands beneath the baby with surprising delicacy. “Up already, huh, trooper?”

Kye let out a small coo, one socked foot kicking.

Rex cradled him against his chest for a moment before carrying him back to the bed. The baby’s head rested just beneath his chin, tiny fingers grasping instinctively at the fabric of his shirt. Rex’s thumb brushed lightly over Kye’s back in steady, practiced motions.

He leaned down and carefully set Kye on the bed between himself and {{user}}, propping him securely on the soft blankets. The mattress dipped slightly under Rex’s weight as he sat beside them.

Kye squirmed, blinking up at the ceiling lights, then toward {{user}}, making a soft, pleased noise.

Rex adjusted the blanket around the baby’s legs, then looked toward {{user}} again. His voice carried that same deep steadiness, but there was unmistakable fondness woven through it.

“Think he’s ready for inspection,” he said quietly. “Got your eyes.”

He allowed himself a small smile, rare and genuine.

Outside their door, the murmur of the ship continued, clones beginning their rotations, distant announcements echoing faintly down the corridor. Inside, for just a few minutes longer, there was only the low hum of the Resolute, the soft rustle of blankets, and the quiet rhythm of a soldier who had learned how to hold both a blaster and a baby with equal devotion.

The briefing room aboard the cruiser hums with the low throb of engines cutting through hyperspace, blue light from the viewport streaking faintly across the polished floor. Troopers from the 501st lean against the walls in loose clusters instead of standing at rigid attention, helmets tucked under arms, armor scuffed from the last deployment. Someone has a caf in hand. Someone else is pretending not to be half asleep.

The doors slide open with a soft mechanical hiss.

Captain Rex steps in first.

He looks exactly like he always does and not at all like he used to. Blonde hair cropped short, still damp from a rushed rinse. Brown eyes sharp and alert despite the early hour. The scar over his right eye catches the overhead light when he turns his head. His armor is freshly secured, blue markings clean, kama hanging properly at his waist. Everything regulation. Everything precise.

Except for the small bundle strapped securely to his chest in a modified sling rigged from soft cloth and repurposed webbing.

Kye is awake.

A few troopers blink.

One of them nearly chokes on his caf.

Rex adjusts the sling with careful fingers, movements controlled but instinctively protective. His gloved hand comes up to steady the baby’s head before he even seems aware he’s doing it. When he speaks, his voice is low and steady as always, that familiar battlefield baritone... just slightly quieter than usual.

“Morning, boys.”

A beat.

“Before anyone says it, yes. I’m aware this isn’t standard issue.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jesse pushes off the wall, eyebrows raised. “Sir... is that a tactical upgrade?”

Rex glances down at Kye, whose tiny fist has somehow grabbed onto the edge of Rex’s chest plate. His expression shifts, barely, but it softens around the edges.

“Highest priority asset on this ship,” he replies evenly. “Handle accordingly.”

Kye makes a small, determined noise, blinking up at the bright lights. Rex immediately lowers one hand to shield the baby’s eyes from the glare without interrupting himself.

Echo tilts his head, analyzing. “Permission to log this as the first successful integration of infantry and childcare divisions?”

“Denied,” Rex says without missing a beat. “Classified.”

More snickers.

The atmosphere is nothing like a formal military briefing. It never is with the 501st. They’re relaxed, comfortable, close. Brothers. And now there’s something new woven into that fabric.

Rex steps toward the holo-table, boots heavy but measured. Even with a baby strapped to him, he moves like a soldier. Efficient. Balanced. Always aware of where everyone stands. He activates the projection with one hand while the other remains lightly braced against Kye’s back.

The hologram flickers to life.

“All right,” Rex says, voice shifting into command mode but still warm around the edges. “Separatist supply route just shifted near the outer rim. We intercept here.”

Kye lets out a tiny squeak.

Rex pauses mid-sentence.

Every clone in the room freezes like a blaster just went off.

Rex looks down slowly.

“...You have something to add, trooper?”

A few of them actually laugh out loud at that.

Kye wiggles, clearly pleased with himself.

Rex exhales through his nose, the ghost of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Thought so.”

He gently pats the baby’s back, voice dropping half an octave. “Easy, kid. Let your old man finish.”

From the doorway, {{user}} is visible further down the corridor, mid-conversation with a crew member, datapad in hand. She works here. She belongs here. No one treats her like an outsider. A few troopers glance her way with knowing grins before looking back at Rex.

Jesse smirks. “Sir, with respect... does General Skywalker know about this?”

Rex straightens slightly. “General Skywalker suggested it.”

That earns a louder reaction.

“General Kenobi,” Rex adds dryly, “recommended I at least try to keep him away from active artillery.”

“Bold strategy,” Echo mutters.

Rex’s hand never leaves Kye’s back. His thumb traces slow, absent patterns through the soft fabric while he continues outlining the mission. His voice carries easily through the room, steady and grounded, the same tone that has led them through Umbara’s darkness and Geonosis’ dust storms.

But every few seconds, his eyes flick down.

Just to check.

Just to make sure.

When Kye lets out a soft, curious coo, Rex instinctively shifts his weight and sways once, subtle and automatic. The motion is small, controlled, something he likely doesn’t even realize he’s doing.

“Focus up,” he says calmly, though there’s no bite to it. “We deploy in six hours. Try not to let a one-month-old outmatch your discipline.”

One of the troopers grins. “With respect, sir, he’s already got better lung capacity than Hardcase.”

“Not difficult,” Rex replies flatly.

The room fills with easy laughter again.

For a moment, the war feels farther away. The galaxy quieter. The captain of the 501st stands at the head of the table with a battle plan glowing in front of him and his son tucked safely against his chest.

The briefing room aboard the Resolute was already humming, holotable lit up in rotating blues, faint engine vibration running through the deck like a second heartbeat. The door slid open a fraction too slow for dramatic effect and then Captain Rex stepped through half armored, half domestic disaster.

One shoulder plate was secured, the other hanging loose. His kama was fastened but twisted slightly off center. One glove was on. The other was currently being used to keep his son from chewing on the edge of his chest plate.

Kye, now a few months old and determined to conquer plastoid, had both tiny fists wrapped in the blue stripe across Rex’s armor and was enthusiastically attempting to taste it.

Rex looked like a man who had survived Umbara but was losing a battle to an eight-pound opponent.

His blond hair was still damp from a rushed rinse, cropped close as ever. The scar over his right eye caught the holotable light. His brown eyes scanned the room automatically, assessing exits, personnel, threat level out of habit. Then they softened when Kye made a victorious gurgle and successfully smacked his chin against Rex’s chest plate.

“Sir,” Rex said evenly, adjusting the loose strap one-handed with impressive precision. His voice carried that familiar steady baritone, calm even when mildly out of breath. “Apologies. Logistics complication.”

From across the table, Anakin leaned back in his chair with a slow grin. “You’re late,” he said, feigning shock. “You’re later than me. I didn’t think that was physically possible.”

A few troopers snorted. Jesse covered it poorly.

Rex shifted Kye higher against his shoulder, the baby immediately grabbing for the fin on his helmet tucked under his arm. “With respect, General,” Rex replied dryly, tightening the final clasp over his bicep, “he outranks both of us at the moment.”

Kye made a determined sound and leaned forward to gum the edge of Rex’s chest plate again.

“Is he trying to eat your armor?” Anakin asked.

“Yes, sir.” Rex didn’t even look down this time. “He’s been at it since 0600. Appears to favor the blue markings.”

“Good taste,” Jesse muttered.

Rex finally pulled the glove over his free hand and gently redirected the baby’s mouth away from the plastoid. His movements were precise but unbelievably gentle, battle-hardened hands adjusting tiny fingers like they were made of glass. He rested his chin briefly against the top of Kye’s head before straightening fully.

The armor was now secured. Captain restored.

“Alright,” Rex said, stepping toward the holotable, shifting seamlessly from father to field commander. His tone remained lighter than usual, but the steadiness returned beneath it. “Let’s get started before he decides to requisition the war effort.”

Kye squealed and slapped a hand against Rex’s chest as if seconding the motion.

Anakin shook his head, smiling. “Next time, just admit he needed to supervise.”

Rex’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “He’s very critical of my strategy.”

The room relaxed around them. No stiffness. No formal tension. Just brothers who had seen each other survive worse than this and were more than happy to witness their captain being defeated by teething.

Kye grabbed for the edge of the holotable projection, fascinated by the glowing light. Rex adjusted his hold without breaking eye contact with the tactical map.

His voice when he began the briefing carried that familiar command presence, smooth and grounded. “Separatist supply convoy entering the Rishi sector. We intercept here,” he gestured to the rotating star line, “disable engines first. Minimal debris field. We keep civilian lanes clear.”

The baby made a happy sound and tried once more to chew the edge of his father’s armor.

Rex exhaled softly through his nose and murmured under his breath, low enough that only those closest caught it. “That’s not regulation, trooper.”

But there was no real reprimand in it. Just warmth threaded through a soldier’s voice.

And for a moment, in a war room filled with hardened men and holographic battle plans, the galaxy felt a little less heavy.

The palace they were staying in was carved from pale stone and veined with streaks of gold that caught the late afternoon light. Outside, the planet’s twin suns dipped low, casting long bars of amber through the tall, narrow windows. The air hummed faintly with distant generator cores and the soft murmur of workers moving through the corridors.

Inside one of the guest chambers, the curtains were half-drawn, the room quiet except for the gentle, rhythmic sound of an infant feeding. Kye’s small hand flexed against soft fabric, tiny fingers curling and uncurling in contented instinct. The faint suckling noises blended with the distant echo of boots on polished floors somewhere far beyond the door.

The room smelled faintly of clean linen and the mineral tang of the planet’s dry air.

Then the handle turned.

The door opened without a knock.

A male worker—plain tunic, insignia of the household stitched near his collar—stepped inside. His eyes flicked once around the room. The door shut behind him with a deliberate click.

Then another sound.

The metallic scrape of a manual lock sliding into place.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The air seemed tighter, heavier. His boots scuffed against the stone floor as he took a slow step forward. His jaw worked once as if steadying himself. One hand lingered near the door as if confirming it was sealed.

Outside in the corridor, a passing clone trooper had caught the movement—just a flicker through the narrowing gap before the door shut. He slowed. His helmet tilted slightly. Something about it felt wrong. The door hadn’t been scheduled for maintenance. No one had been cleared for that wing at this hour.

The trooper didn’t hesitate.

He turned and broke into a sprint.

Across the palace, in a different hall lined with banners and polished metal columns, Captain Rex stood in discussion with General Anakin Skywalker. Rex’s armor gleamed under the overhead lighting—white plastoid marked with bold blue striping across the helmet and chest plate, the paint slightly worn at the edges from countless campaigns. His kama hung from his waist, fabric swaying as he shifted his weight. His posture was straight, alert even at rest, shoulders squared like he was always one second from battle.

The sprinting clone rounded the corner, nearly skidding as he stopped short.

“Captain—” the trooper started, breath sharp. “A worker—he locked himself in Your wife's chamber.”

Rex didn’t ask questions first.

His helmet snapped toward the corridor.

“What?” His voice dropped into that controlled, gravel-edged tone that carried command even when quiet. It wasn’t loud—but it hit like a blaster shot. “How long ago?”

“Seconds, sir.”

Rex was already moving.

Boots thundered against stone as he ran, kama flaring behind him. Anakin didn’t need further explanation—he followed immediately, robes snapping with each stride.

Rex’s jaw was tight beneath his helmet. The corridor lights streaked past in flashes of white and gold. His breath came steady, controlled, but faster now. The palace guards they passed flattened themselves against the walls as the clone captain and Jedi general tore through the wing.

They reached the door.

Locked.

Rex didn’t waste time with formality. He stepped back once and drove his shoulder forward with brutal force.

The metal door shuddered violently under the impact.

A dent bloomed inward from the hit—deep, jagged, the frame groaning in protest. The sound rang down the hall like a struck gong.

Rex stepped back again, rage sharpening every movement. “Open it!” he barked, voice no longer measured. It carried raw command now, protective fury unmistakable. “Now!”

Inside, the muffled echo of movement.

Anakin’s expression hardened. Without a word, he ignited his lightsaber. The blue blade flared to life with its unmistakable snap-hiss, casting electric light across the corridor walls.

Rex stepped aside only enough to give him room.

The blade plunged into the metal with a violent spray of molten sparks. The air filled with the sharp scent of burning alloy. Anakin carved downward in a clean, controlled line, the metal glowing red-white where the saber passed.

Rex’s hand was already on his blaster.

“Move,” he growled, voice low and lethal as the cut completed and the door gave way.

The slab of metal fell inward with a heavy crash.

And Rex was through the opening in the same breath—armor catching the flicker of the fading sparks, blue markings stark against the dim room light—his presence filling the space like a shield made flesh.

“Step away,” he ordered, voice cold as durasteel. Anakin speaks up "Rex I got him just tend to your wife"