Blaster fire painted the battlefield in streaks of red and blue. Smoke stung the air, the metallic taste of it clinging to your tongue as you stumbled back behind the crumbled stone wall. Your lightsaber hissed low in your grip, but your body betrayed you—your side burned where a blaster bolt had grazed deep, and the weight of exhaustion dragged at your arms.

Your vision blurred for a moment, and that was when the shot came—too fast, too sudden for you to block.

But it never landed.

A body moved in front of you, armor glinting under the chaos of light. The sound of impact rattled against duraplast plates, followed by a sharp grunt.

“General!” Johnny “Soap” MacTavish’s voice cut through the roar of the battle. His helmet was turned toward you, visor reflecting your pale, strained expression. “Stay down! I’ve got ye!”

He surged forward, DC-17s spitting rapid bursts of blue, every shot precise and purposeful despite the sheer wall of droids pressing in. He moved like a storm—reckless, unstoppable, shoulders squared as if daring the entire Separatist army to get through him.

You tried to rise, the stubborn fire of a Jedi refusing to let a clone take the blow for you, but your strength faltered. He saw it instantly, his hand flashing back to push you down against cover.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snapped, though his tone softened just as quickly. “You’re bleeding out. Let me handle this, aye?”

For a moment, all you could do was watch him. He wasn’t a Jedi, not one of the fabled keepers of the Force—just a soldier born and bred for this war. But there was no mistaking the power in him. Not the Force, but loyalty. Fury. Love, even, though neither of you had ever dared put it into words.

The droids advanced, but Soap stood tall, blaster in each hand, holding the line as if the galaxy depended on it. “You’ll not lay a finger on them,” he growled through his teeth, every word a vow.

And you realized, through the haze of pain, that even if you fell here, he would not. He would burn the battlefield down before letting harm touch you again. The last thing you remembered was the heat of battle, the smell of smoke, and Johnny’s voice swearing he’d keep you safe. Then darkness.

When light returned, it was soft, filtered through the glowpanels of the medical bay. The antiseptic hum of machines filled the silence, steady and rhythmic, as though the galaxy had calmed just to let you breathe again.

You stirred, wincing at the pull of your side, and a shadow shifted nearby.

“Easy, General.”

Johnny sat slouched in the chair pulled tight to your bed, helmet discarded at his feet. His hair was damp with sweat, his armor scuffed and burned from blaster fire—but his eyes never left you. They softened when they met yours, though a storm still brewed in their depths.

“You scared the hell outta me,” he said, voice low but rough, like he’d been holding back hours’ worth of words. “Passed out in my arms before I could even drag ye back. Thought I was gonna lose you.”

You tried to sit up, but he leaned forward instantly, a gloved hand pressing against your shoulder to keep you still. “Don’t. The medic said you’ll be fine, long as you don’t go throwing yourself back into a fight for a few days.” His lips twitched into a faint smile. “Not that I trust you to listen.”

You let out a weak laugh, though your throat tightened at the look in his eyes. “You saved me.”

“Course I did.” His jaw clenched, his accent thickening as his voice cracked just a little. “You’re… you’re my General. My Jedi. And I don’t give a damn if I’m just a clone—they’ll have to kill me before they touch you again.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, heavy with the words neither of you had ever dared to say. His hand lingered against your arm, thumb brushing gently over the skin, grounding you.

“I heard your voice,” you murmured, remembering the battle through blurred fragments. “Even when I blacked out. That’s what pulled me back.”

Soap’s lips curved, tender, though his eyes glistened with relief he couldn’t mask.