Chapter Text
Giggles drifted into his corner of the garden, and Wolffe growled.
Seated nearby, Plo simply hummed. “You do realize that only encourages them.”
Stifling another growl, Wolffe shifted to a more comfortable position on the grass. Around them, plants from a hundred different worlds rustled in the morning sunlight, and one could faintly hear the ever persistent Coruscant traffic beyond the Temple’s thick walls.
Additional giggles prompted Wolffe to peel open one eye and scowl at the bushes.
“You advertised this as being peaceful,” he grumbled to the Kel Dor practically radiating amusement. “I’m feeling too much like prey for that.”
“Then perhaps you might adapt to being a hunter instead,” Plo replied.
“Hrmph.” After a moment’s consideration, Wolffe sighed, and rolled smoothly to his feet. Even such a minor movement made something inside him warm with satisfaction; the effect of too many years spent compensating for aching bones and stiff joints, only to suddenly be young and perfectly fit again. And ‘perfectly’ truly did mean perfect - the scar over his right eye remained, but it was his eye again, not a cybernetic replacement that glitched in cold weather and never failed to remind Wolffe of his failures.
Living in the past, with his closest brothers and his general and a body that didn’t creak each morning, he instead spent every day reminded of his blessings.
The man stalked the bushes lining Plo’s preferred meditation spot, ears strained for the slightest discordance. Sure enough, one leafy individual in particular seemed too quiet as he stepped past.
“Gotcha!” Wolffe roared, hands dramatically shooting into the bush. Multiple delighted squeals rang out as three younglings tumbled out the far side, scrambling to get to their feet and bolt before he could attack further. Wolffe let them run off, smirking, content to enjoy his victory without following it up with any additional payback. Behind him, Plo’s chuckles rolled through the small clearing, and the sunlight became that much warmer.
A few minutes later, after the Jedi went back to meditating and Wolffe gave up his attempt at it in favor of stretching out on the grass, they received more visitors.
“I hear we’re scaring the adiike this morning,” Sinker commented, dropping to sit cross-legged on the ground, plate of breakfast pastries in hand.
“They started it,” Wolffe huffed, nostrils flaring at the scent. He didn’t bother to move, however, until Boost attempted to use his legs as a bench. The older clone kicked him away, snagging a pastry as he sat up and shifted closer to Plo.
“Mm, yes, three little would-be stalkers came tearing out of here as we came by,” Boost snickered. “You know your reactions are just encouraging them more, right?”
“Hmph.”
As the others continued to laugh at his expense, Wolffe swiped another pastry.
-Vod’e-
Hushed whispers cut off the moment he turned down the corridor towards the training halls. Wolffe paused mid-step, gaze sweeping the nearby alcoves. There were two types of guilty silence one could hear in the Temple, and he’d become a master at telling the difference between Jedi trying to blend into the Force, and brothers attempting to fade into the background.
“You may as well spill the caff now,” he drawled, shifting into a comfortable stance with his arms crossed. “I’m bound to find out sooner or later, regardless.”
After a pause, two clones slipped out of the deepest alcove on his left. They looked young, and moved awkwardly in their civvies - modified versions of Jedi robes that felt nothing like the reassuring weight of armor, even if they were made with multiple layers of blast-resistant material. Newcomers, then, but not shinies; one’s hair was carefully shaved into a fade, and the other bore a neat slash of a scar across his face.
“Wolffe?” The latter asked, cautiously. Aware of how different he himself looked, after living in the past for several years, the man nodded. “Grey. We met once, after Haruun Kal.”
A massacre, Wolffe recalled after a moment. Grievous showed up unexpectedly, and out of an entire battalion, only a handful of clones survived, along with their severely injured Jedi. “Good to see you, Grey. And this is?”
“Captain Styles, sir,” the other trooper muttered in a subdued tone. Which, if Wolffe remembered correctly, was out of character for him. “We, uh. We came back a few days ago.”
Along with two squads of their own men and a group from the Lightning Corps, right - Wolffe had been so glad to see Ponds alive and well again he’d practically ignored the rest of the group. “Your Jedi alright?”
Styles, somehow, shrank even further into himself, and Grey looked pained. “Yes, she’s... she’s fine. Better than ever, I’d say.”
Ah. “And you’re off your game, trying to adjust to that,” Wolffe murmured. It was a growing problem, as more men came back, especially ones who’d grown closest to their Generals as the war grew darker, and forged bonds in the aftermaths of battles. Add to that the complications of the end of the war... “Sixty-six?”
Both men before him flinched, Styles outright closing his eyes and turning his head away. “We were told about the chips when we arrived,” he said bitterly. “We know they aren’t in our heads anymore, we don’t pose a risk anymore - but she shouldn’t trust us, we don’t deserve it-”
“It’s complicated,” Grey cut in, anguish plain on his face. “We’re still- we’re trying to figure out if we should stay or leave, whether we can try to earn a place with her again or if it’s better to stay the hell away.”
“You’re hardly the only ones,” Wolffe said. “Might help to talk to a few of them.” For some, like Keeli, it hadn’t taken any thought at all whether to stick to their Jedi or not. Others, who hadn’t been all that close to their Generals, or who’d gunned them down thanks to Order Sixty-Six, spent months agonizing over the decision.
(Wolffe didn’t want to think about the headache he’d get dealing with Bly, because he knew the 327th commander would be showing up at some point, and it was definitely going to be a mess.)
“I bet we’re the only ones who spent a year chasing their General’s padawan across the Rim,” Styles growled.
“We haven’t even told her about him yet,” Grey added, his face twisted up with pain and grief. “It’s one thing with General Billaba, she went- she went down quickly. But Caleb- stars, I don’t know how we’re going to face him.”
Wolffe... paused. “Caleb Dume?”
Both men blinked at him. “Y- yes,” Grey stuttered. Hope started to bloom in his eyes, because it was common knowledge amongst the Temple-based brothers that Wolffe was one of three clones to live far beyond Sixty-Six, who saw the end of the Empire and the rebirth of the Jedi. “Did- did you-”
“He was going by the name Kanan Jarrus when we met,” Wolffe grinned. “Good man. Led a rebel cell in the Lothal sector, had a pain in the shebs padawan of his own who won us some important victories.”
Grey wobbled where he stood, as if about to sink to his knees, and Styles looked close to breaking into tears. “He lived,” the latter whispered. “That kriffing kid, he lived-!”
“He found himself a new family,” Wolffe told them. “And I think you’d be doing his memory a disservice if you didn’t take the chance you’ve got at rebuilding his first one.”
Both straightened, and looked to each other before nodding. Styles let out a wet chuckle, as Grey hastily wiped at his own eyes before fixing Wolffe with an intent stare. “Tell us everything,” he asked, demanded, pleaded.
“Of course, vod. First of all, your lot came back with the 91st; they tell you anything about Ryloth, and Cham Syndulla...?”
-Vod’e-
When Wolffe found Plo for dinner that evening, he recognized the Kel Dor’s pensive expression, and immediately felt his metaphorical hackles rise. “Sir?”
“Peace, my friend,” the Jedi murmured, absently stirring his liquid meal while gazing at a datapad. “No wars have yet been declared.”
An old joke, from the Wolfpack’s first days in the past, but it didn’t do much to soothe Wolffe’s sudden bout of paranoia. “Well, something is clearly up.” He considered the day, the usual schedule, the Council meeting he declined to attend in favor of training (which wound up ignored in favor of storytelling with Grey and Styles)...
“An issue has arisen concerning the Mid Rim world of Naboo, which is under Trade Federation blockade,” Plo explained, tapping at the ‘pad. “Jedi negotiation has been requested by the Senate. The Council had thought to send Master Qui-gon Jinn, due to his experience with such matters, but-”
“-but he doesn’t have any troopers attached to him,” Wolffe realized. “Are we anticipating this turning into a military confrontation?”
“There has been, to put it simply, a collective bad feeling,” his Jedi demurred.
“Ah. I’ll tell the boys to pack, then. When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow, mid-day. And Wolffe - thank you.”
Three years of violently suppressed emotion were outweighed by twenty-odd years of aching grief, and Wolffe let himself lean into the offered half-hug. This version of Plo didn’t quite consider the Wolfpack to be his sons as the other one had, but they were more than mere comrades, more than friends. “Aliit ori’shya tal’din,” the man murmured. “We’re always with you, sir.”
“And I shall be forever grateful, even when I feel I have not anything to deserve it.”
“You don’t need to,” Wolffe insisted. “You are yourself, and that’s enough for us.”